A Thousand Words
by Ashen Skies
Summary: [1x2x1] Duo’s exhausted, overworking himself to the point of death and he welcomes it all with open arms. But then mysterious drawings begin to appear, forcing him to rethink his choices, and to remember what and who he left behind... [complete]
1. Monday the Fourth

**Disclaimer:** Ashen, despite her most fervent wishes, does not own and does not have any relation to Gundam Wing and its affliates. Ashen is not making any profit from writing this, nor does she have permission to.

**Pairings:** 1x2x1, probable mentions of 3x4

**Summary:** Duo's exhausted, overworking himself to the point of death- and he welcomes it all with open arms. But then he finds mysterious drawings appearing, showing him what he'd lost, and he begins to rethink his life...

* * *

**A Thousand Words **

_One _

_

* * *

_

_A picture is worth a thousand words. _– Napoleon Bonaparte

* * *

It was midnight again. Past midnight. God he was tired. Twenty-four seven cafés were a godsend; he didn't know what he'd do without them. Buy ration bars by the carton, probably. At least he could carry ration bars around, and gnaw his way through them whenever he was hungry. Right now he didn't even have the time to do that – eat when he was hungry, that is. If it wasn't for the coffee and the midnight food he'd starve. The ration bar idea sounded good, if only to keep himself alive, though the taste might just kill him instead.

Dammit, he'd grown so soft, there was a time he'd be happy for even half a bar, it was that bad, but now he couldn't imagine going back to that. The war was hell, yet this – he supposed this was a more organized modernized form of it. Paperwork, red tape, he'd take the war over this any day, at least he'd been running on adrenaline then. Now he was running on autopilot. On the obligation he had to keep his company going, provide jobs for those people he hadn't managed to kill, do his bit for peace. Penance for what he'd done in the war. He knew that no matter what he did it'd never be enough, but his body was telling him something else.

_Kill me now instead of killing me slowly_, it was telling him.

God he was tired.

Steering wheel, brake, gear stick, stop. He stared blankly at the windshield and then turned the key. The engine died, he opened the door, forced himself out of the car. He wanted to sleep, but he knew he needed this once-a-day meal. He wished he'd never found out the difference between _want_ and _need_, or trained himself to do the latter in spite of the former.

Bright lights, door, empty booth, sit. The cushion of the seat was soft, the table hard, but he couldn't really tell the difference, couldn't really care, besides he was used to it. He crossed his arms on the table, nestled his head in the crook of his elbow, closed his eyes against the white movement, and slept.

_Hands, working at a feverish pace, pulling, wrapping, pressing. A voice, yelling for open space, extra hands, someone-call-an-ambulance-now! Gasps for air, laboured breathing, am-I-going-to-die? Blood. Open, gaping flesh._

_His hands. His voice._

_Not his blood. Not his flesh._

_Not his life, running in rivulets to the floor._

A gentle voice, calling him. He stirred, lifted his head, squinted at the blurred face looking down at him in concern, sat up and rubbed his eyes. Ten minutes already? It seemed like he'd just laid his head down. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. It was all he had. Little chunks of ten minutes like this.

Food. Warm, colourful, unlike his office. He'd kept it cold to keep himself awake. The Arctic, his staff called it, bare and cold. He still remembered the first time he'd came here, nearly one o'clock, looked at the menu and asked for the dish they'd take the longest to prepare fresh. Lasagne, the waitress had told him, confused. Seven minutes or so if the chef hurried, since there was hardly anyone else in the café. He'd told her to make it ten, and wake him up when it was done.

"Duo?"

He remembered how he'd inhaled it, how delicious it'd tasted. Everything was delicious when one was hungry. Now, though, he hardly tasted the food, and let his hands and mouth work automatically while he zoned out to get as much mind-rest as possible.

"_Duo_," the girl had said, a few seconds ago. Damn, this was pathetic; if it was wartime he'd be dead thousand times over, zoning out when someone was calling him. This was really pathetic. His reaction time had been instantaneous, now it was a few seconds late. He needed to pull himself together. He didn't know how to.

"Carrie," he said, acknowledging her, turning to give her a dredged-up smile, seeing the worry in her face, in the way she was standing there at the side watching him with furrowed eyebrows. Standing a few steps away. The first time she'd woken him, she'd tried to do it by shaking his shoulder. The bruise had faded after a week. That she still continued to serve him, worry about him, was a miracle.

"You look worse than usual. Busy week?"

He'd hurt an innocent. A motherly sixty-something year old woman, at that, gentle, defenceless. His being asleep at the time wasn't an excuse. It was unforgivable. He'd kept himself on unconscious alert since then, while sleeping here or anywhere where there might be someone coming near. It meant he'd gotten even less sleep than before, but that was okay, if it meant no one else got hurt.

She'd asked him a question. "Yeah," he said, picking up the fork. "Five hours reduced to three, now." More like two and a half, but she didn't need to know that. She was worried enough as it was. He was just so busy…

"You're killing yourself, Duo. You eat something as fattening as lasagne late at night yet you seem to be losing weight, fast. Most people would be at least five pounds heavier after a month of eating like you do."

He took a bite, chewed, swallowed. He hadn't tasted anything at all, like he was chewing air. "Most people aren't me."

"I can see that."

Bite, chew, swallow. "I'm fine. I'm still alive, aren't I."

"Not for long."

Bite, chew, swallow. "I need to work."

"Not like this! No matter what you're working as, no one should have to work like this."

His fork paused on the way to his mouth. "_Should_ doesn't work in reality." Bite, chew, swallow.

She changed tactics. "Why do you work so hard? You could just quit, find another job. Or tell your boss you can't take this."

He smiled grimly. "I _am_ the boss."

"Then make your employees share some of the responsibility!"

Bite chew, swallow. "I give them enough work to occupy them during working hours, and then a few more hours when they get home. It's enough. All of them have families, they need family time. I don't." And besides, part of the penance for part of his guilt was that he provided efficient low-cost high-quality work, to do his bit for the people, and so he couldn't hire too many workers. He needed to keep his company afloat. Fewer workers meant fewer expenses. It didn't matter that it meant more work for himself.

He couldn't tell her that, of course. She wouldn't understand. She didn't know the guilt he carried.

"A few more hours of work each won't kill them. A few less hours of work won't kill you. Again, why do you work so hard?"

Bite, chew, swallow. He didn't answer.

She sighed. Out of the corner of her eye he saw her shake her head. He took another bite. She sighed again, and left.

He appreciated her concern. He didn't deserve it.

It took him ten minutes to finish the food. It was a generous portion, slightly larger than the usual. He rather suspected Carrie was behind that. He must have looked especially bad.

He placed the utensils neatly at the side of the plate, wiped his mouth with a napkin, leaned against the booth's back while he took out his wallet and placed fifteen bucks next to the plate, then slid out of his seat and stood. Time to get home and do his work, catch his two and a half hours of sleep. Knowing how much work awaited him, it would probably be two hours, tonight. Less than two.

A few steps away from the door he paused, hearing Carrie call him. Turning, he watched her approach him, something white held in her hand. Rolled-up, good quality white sketching paper, if his tired eyes were any judge.

"Here," she said. She held the paper out. "The artist asked me to give it to you."

"The artist?" He took it warily.

"We don't know his name. These past two weeks he's been sitting around town, quick-sketching people, giving them his drawings. Usually it's the tired ones, who need cheering up, he draws them happy. He did me once. It's framed at home." She looked at him, smiled ruefully. "If there's anyone needs cheering up now, it'd be you."

Someone had been observing him, drawing him, unnoticed. Even with the best of intentions, it still sent a chill up his spine. He hadn't felt it. He should have felt it. _Should_ didn't work in reality. He wouldn't be caught off-guard like that anymore.

"Well? Go on, open it," she said. There was eagerness and anticipation in her tone, in the wrinkle-lines on her face. It was unusual, surprising, to see her so animated. It was something he didn't want to disappoint.

He opened it.

Startled laughter, a disbelieving quirk of the lips, of eyebrows, braided hair whipping into the air with a quick, unguarded duck of his head, an abandoned movement. Arms half-raised above his face, guarding against a friendly joking blow from the top, face half-turned away. Eyes crinkled with amused mock-annoyance, looking to the side. Broad sweeping strokes, thick to thin; short powerful ones, full of energy; careless skilful shading brought out the leanness of his arms, his body, the contours of his face, the odd yet so natural angle his face was tilted at towards the light.

He half expected his black-and-white self to complete the movement, twisting his back and waist away, and leap out towards him, laughing, to avoid the blow. He could almost hear Quatre's amused admonishment to take the blow like a man, and him retaliating by straightening and tackling the blond, tickling him into submission, while Trowa watched bemused by the side and Heero and Wufei torn between smiling and muttering about little children.

He found himself looking up, around, to check for their presence, and caught himself. Carrie was exclaiming over how handsome he would look if he gained some weight and smiled more often, and he remembered a time when he did exactly that. It seemed so long ago now, but it was only what, six months since the end of the war? Six months since he'd left the others, since he'd run and hidden himself in some remote corner of the country, setting up his salvage business which was starting to become well known around the area. Six months since he'd started to try to lose himself, his past, his dreams, and become an ordinary man, and he'd succeeded.

He'd succeeded, but a little too well.

He'd succeeded, but suddenly all he wanted to do was meet his friends again. To be subjected to Quatre's all-too-knowing comments and mother-henning, to Trowa's meaningful silence and expressive looks, to Heero's blunt logic and extremely dry sense of humour, to Wufei's self-righteous rants and focussed determination. To laugh and tease and mock-fight and he was not going to cry, god dammit. He was better than that.

How the hell had the artist managed to capture the essence of who he'd been? Just like that? How had he known?

"Is this artist still here?" he asked, carefully rolling up the picture again.

Carrie shook her head. "He left immediately after he gave that to me."

"Who – no, you've said no one knows. Where can I find him, then?"

"No one knows. He goes wherever he wants to, draws whoever he wants, and disappears after he finishes a drawing. He draws someone only once, so you'll probably not meet him again."

"How does he look like?"

She smiled, amused. "Why the curiosity?"

"Because someone with this kind of talent should be out there making money, not sitting around drawing people for free." _And also because I need to ask him how he knew. How he saw what he did. How he saw what I want, more than anything, right now._

"It's very nice of him, don't you think? But anyway, no one knows how to find him, like I said, he's anywhere he wants to be. You're not the first one to try, and you'll not be the first to fail if you don't find him. He's very normal, wears a cap, T-shirt, jeans, sports shoes… just your average guy on the streets. Even if you see him you won't know it's him."

He nodded, feeling the beginnings of anticipation spark inside him. "Thank you."

"No problem. See you tomorrow," she said, and as he turned and took the few steps to the exit, added, "Take care of yourself."

Bright lights, door, darkness, pause. He let his eyes adjust to the change in lighting, walked to his car, unlocked it, got in, turned the engine on. Carefully he placed the drawing on the passenger's seat, reversed the car, backed out of the lot, drove away. Somehow he wasn't as sleepy as before. Adrenaline, an old companion so long forgotten, had come back for a visit. He didn't think it would leave anytime soon.

He did so love a good challenge.

Especially a good hunt.

* * *

I think everyone but Duo knows who the artist is. If he knew this fic was a 1x2x1, I'll bet he could guess, too. -grins-

Review, please!

And don't worry, for those who are. I haven't forgotten about my other fics. I'm working on them, I swear.

**Ashen Skies**  
_"He'd succeeded, but a little too well."_


	2. First Week

**Disclaimer:** Ashen, despite her most fervent wishes, does not own and does not have any relation to Gundam Wing and its affliates. Ashen is not making any profit from writing this, nor does she have permission to.

**Pairings:** 1x2x1, probable mentions of 3x4

**Summary:** Duo's exhausted, overworking himself to the point of death- and he welcomes it all with open arms. But then he finds mysterious drawings appearing, showing him what he'd lost, and he begins to rethink his life...

* * *

**A Thousand Words**

_Two _

_

* * *

_

_So wise so young, they say do never live long._ – Shakespeare's King Richard III

* * *

He didn't frame the picture up. He didn't even put it somewhere prominent; rather he left it in its rolled-up state in his desk drawer in his office. It was too much of a reminder, a temptation to pick up the phone and dial one of the four numbers he'd never forgotten, four numbers that he'd never forget unless he made himself. He didn't think he had that kind of willpower. He knew that it was unlikely one of them had changed their numbers, so that if he ever contacted them again it would be easy for him to find them. Hope springs eternal, especially in Quatre's case, optimistic blond that he was. Even if they _had_ moved, had gotten a new line, they would have left some way for him to find them.

He knew them too well, and didn't deserve them.

Nevertheless the picture – he should burn it, rip it up, throw it away, but no, he was too damned weak – remained in his desk, a black hole that persistently drew that little corner of his attention away from his papers and documents. _Later_, he promised himself. _Later in the afternoon._

But the adrenaline that had run through him last night – which he was grateful for, since it had helped keep him awake – was but a faint memory now, and later in the afternoon turned to tomorrow. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow – a line from Macbeth, one of Shakespeare's works that Quatre had pushed onto him – and almost one week had gone by, and tomorrow would be Monday again, and the pull of the drawing had greatly lessened. He didn't feel that urge to seek out the artist anymore. With exhaustion came apathy, he knew. Adrenaline was fleeting.

He brought the picture home that night, and threw it onto the pile of junk papers in the corner of his room. Forgetting was the simplest thing to do. He made himself a sandwich – he hadn't had the time to go to the restaurant these past two days, there were a few big projects coming up – then went to work in the study to eat while he started on his papers.

He'd done the stuff that required more thought the few nights before and now he only had the calculations left, and the summaries, and the analysis. Mindless work, tedious work, tiring, boring. He found himself nodding off over his bedroom desk, something he'd not done for a while. He reached for the bottle of caffeine pills he kept within easy reach, then hesitated, wave after wave of weariness crashing over him. _Surely ten minutes won't hurt_, he reasoned, set the alarm clock on the desk, and pillowed his head on his forearms. Back in the old days his internal clock was more than enough; it was another sign of how much he'd lost, that he needed a clock…

_What did we ever do to you?_

_Jagged edges, a serrated wound, black-tinged blood. Viscous, not liquid, not good. _

_Always us – never you._

_Pressure on the skin, stop the blood flow, choking on the air – too stifling. He needed more air, more time, more equipment. Not enough, not enough at all._

_You should be the one to die…_

_Breath growing shallow, heart slowing, blood flow sluggish. No._

_Am I going to die?_

He sat up with a strangled scream stuck in his throat, heart pounding, cold sweat beading on his skin. Not even five minutes yet; he flicked the 'off' switch for the alarm and struggled to his feet, his legs feeling shaky and his body feeling numb. He hadn't had a nightmare for a while, utter exhaustion keeping them at bay, except for a few flashes now and then like at the restaurant but those weren't counted because they didn't give him the reaction he was having now.

_I need to tire myself out more_, he realized grimly. _I really am going to kill myself one day._

His apartment had a small balcony; he kept the door wide open and the windows pulled back to let the cold wind in because it kept him awake and he was too high up for anyone to be able to get in that way, or even look in. Now he stumbled out to lean against the rail, and closed his eyes and let the night air freeze the nightmare from his mind and the sweat from his skin. He took a deep breath, gasping at the iciness of it, and grimly took in another. _I'm going to get a cold,_ he thought, and then had to smile at the absurdity of that thought. He didn't get colds. He didn't get sick. It seemed that he didn't get hurt, either, nowadays. He didn't die.

_You should be the one to die…_

A soft moan involuntarily passed his lips; his legs gave out on him and he found himself on the ground, on his knees, shaking. He pressed his forehead against the cold metal of the rail and willed himself to get a grip. Not now, not today. He hadn't done enough yet to let himself go.

Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself to his feet and turned to the bedroom. The blackness of the night outside was so much easier on his eyes than the yellow glow of his room, and for a second he entertained the thought of stepping back, not forward, and letting gravity do its work…

He found himself with his back to the railing, on the balls of his feet, leaning dangerously over. How…? He was suddenly appalled at himself, at his lack of control, and forced himself away from the rail. One step, two, in the right direction, and it was easier from there. He made it all the way back into the room, and had to laugh at the fact that it seemed like a huge accomplishment to walk less than ten steps.

Perhaps it was.

He didn't think about it, and sat down, picking up the brown bottle, gulping down a pill with the large bottle of water also always on his desk. He had work to do.

* * *

Whew. Close call, hmm? 

Thank you to the wonderful, wonderful people who reviewed the previous chapter. Originally I didn't plan much on writing more of this, but seeing the response I decided to continue.

Hope you liked!

**Ashen Skies  
**"_He hadn't done enough yet to let himself go."_


	3. Monday the Eleventh and the Second Week

**Disclaimer:** Ashen, despite her most fervent wishes, does not own and does not have any relation to Gundam Wing and its affliates. Ashen is not making any profit from writing this, nor does she have permission to.

**Pairings:** 1x2x1, probable mentions of 3x4

**Summary:** Duo's exhausted, overworking himself to the point of death – and he welcomes it all with open arms. But then he finds mysterious drawings appearing, showing him what he'd lost, and he begins to rethink his life...

* * *

**A Thousand Words**

_Three_

_

* * *

_

_Food is the most primitive form of comfort._ – Sheilah Graham

* * *

It was on his desk when he arrived in the office the next day, another Monday, another week; he couldn't stop himself from stopping when he saw it. Standing in the doorway, aware that if he didn't move soon his back would soon be receiving curious stares, he couldn't take his eyes off the rolled-up tube of white, placed neatly and firmly atop his other papers, innocuous and yet so threatening.

How…?

She'd said that the artist never drew a person more than once, that he came and went, appeared and disappeared, a ghost, an angel. Perhaps he was making too much out of this. Perhaps it wasn't the artist at all.

The part of him that had kept him alive during the war took the piece of paper in, examined it, mentally compared it, and confirmed that it was the exact same type of paper the other drawing had been done on. _It doesn't mean anything_, he reasoned, but even as he did he could hear himself calling – well, himself, ten kinds of idiot. There was no such thing as coincidence.

And since there wasn't, it meant that he'd been followed. To the restaurant, to work, to who knows where else and when else. He'd been followed, and studied, and he _hadn't known_.

Fear was a cold mist that settled around his shoulders, making his senses sharper, awakened from their sleep-deprived state with a new rush of adrenaline. He was being foolish; the artist had come and gone and left the paper behind, and the paper wasn't likely to leap up and bite him – nevertheless he scanned the room first before stepping into it and shutting the door, having ascertained a lack of immediate threat. The only source of possible danger was the drawing, and that was something he didn't want to think about too closely: what part of him it actually threatened.

Carefully he picked up the tube of paper, and examined the outer surface and the simple red rubber band that held it rolled up; nothing. He pulled of the band, tossing it onto the table – and hesitated. Did he really want to see what was drawn? He could just throw it away, never to know; ignorance was bliss, wasn't that what everybody said?

Everybody.

Hadn't he always, always, tried to be different? To stand out; to be remembered.

_Oh, how the mighty have fallen._

He slowly unfurled the drawing.

Dark eyes stared accusingly out at him, the play of shaded light on that weighted gaze reflecting concerned worry disguised, always disguised, as righteous anger; a strict face, a troubled tilt to a normally stern mouth, sketched lines showing real lines of stress, some lightly swept across the paper, some etched deeply. Arms folded in amused exasperation over a tank-top-clad chest, fingers caught in the act of drumming an impatient rhythm on an upper arm, an unconscious habit that had recently developed due to a certain friend – or not so recently, considering the half a year since he'd last met Wufei.

And it was, without a doubt, Wufei, in the middle of one of his lectures to Duo on taking better care of himself, on putting the past behind him and moving forward, on not being such a stubborn idiot – he'd always been a hypocrite on that last point, really.

Duo stared at the drawing for the longest time, simply breathing, fighting back tears and despair. All the effort he'd spent these past few months trying to forget, to build walls around the memories of his past – he'd withstood countless assaults, and triggers, but against this kind of attack his barriers might as well have been paper. Tissue, even. Weightless, and insubstantial, and suddenly painful to put up again; he'd missed the rest so much, so much. He'd just made himself forget that he did, and any of the other pilots would attest to the strength of his stubbornness; what Duo Maxwell wanted, they'd say, he would always get through sheer mule-headedness.

He drew on that determination now, mechanically rolling up the paper as he forced his mental walls up again. He knew his limits – tracking down the artist would take up too much of his time, and energy; he'd never get anything properly done. His thoughts one week ago were – foolish. He'd let a temporary distraction get to him; now he knew better. He would forget this whole drawing business, as long as the artist didn't go any farther than leave him random pieces of paper – speaking of which, if he found any others, he would not look at them. He would simply throw them away.

_Time used to be you'd confront your fears head-on_, a treacherous voice whispered in his mind. _You'd not be such a coward._

"Things change," he whispered, hating it.

The rolled-up paper was put into his briefcase – he should crush it, crumple it into a ball and toss it far out of the window, watch it fly; he should throw it into the bin – but he couldn't make himself do that to Wufei. It was stupid, stupidly sentimental – it wasn't Wufei himself, after all, just a sketch, and the Chinese man would never know – but he just… couldn't.

He would put it with the drawing he already had, and in time he wouldn't remember he had them at all. That settled, he got down to work.

A few hours later, he was already forgetting.

* * *

It was pure black outside but for the feeble street lights, the roads almost empty, even the night crowd was packing up to go home; Duo vaguely noted no other signs of life as he chewed on his ration bar, robotically moving towards the stairs and climbing them, the hand not holding his food – if it could even be called that – holding a report which he read through and nearly cursed at a few times. He'd be up all night straightening things out, some idiot had thought to cheat them, it had been subtly done but he could see the tangles… he pushed the door open absent-mindedly with his foot and – 

went –

in.

He froze.

Suddenly all his senses were ice-sharp, his eyes taking in all the minute details of his apartment in an instant. _Not again_, some resigned part of his sighed.

Hiding places, changed positions, missing things, new things. None. He moved himself into a less conspicuous place, not in sight of the window, out of the path of any bullet that might come through there, just as a precaution because if someone had wanted to sniper him they've have done it already when he'd stood there unmoving in the most idiotic fashion possible, and made a second sweep of the apartment. Nothing.

No such thing as nothing, when someone had broke into his place.

But in the study, where his documents were – nothing. His bedroom – nothing. That left the kitchen, and there he found it, but what _it_ was left him blinking and utterly lost.

Take-out?

The paper bag had the logo of the diner he'd used to eat at, so late at night, where Carrie worked; it had been folded neatly, flat, to show the picture and to show that nothing else was inside; if it hadn't been Duo would have treated it like it contained something harmful. As it was… a sealed dish of pasta, still warm from the condensation on the inside of the plastic wrapper, sat comfortably next to the bag, side by side with a bowl of chowder.

He said it out loud: "Someone broke into my house to leave me takeout."

Out loud, it didn't sound any more believable.

He went closer; there was a note tucked neatly under the bowl, to keep it from flying; it was in Carrie's handwriting and the admonishing, caring tone was clearly hers. That lowered the chances of the food being poisoned, then.

The moment he picked up the paper, he knew.

He went to retrieve his bag, and fished out the roll of paper from it. His fingers were sensitive, there was no doubt – it was the same paper as the one Carrie's note had been done on.

_The hell?_

No matter how he thought about it, it didn't make any sense.

The clock chimed. It was three in the morning, so very late it was early; he was tired, hungry, exhausted, and he couldn't sleep yet, he had so much to do; probably – very likely – he'd not get any sleep that night. Normally he'd take the caffeine pills to keep him awake, sustained; he'd been taking more every night, since the more he took the less effective they became, he should cut down – and the artist didn't seem to mean him any harm.

_If I die from food poisoning, I die, but right now I die without food._

He ate.

Alone in his kitchen, the florescent lights harsh against the silent darkness outside, the air cold and still, he ate, and warmth from the food seeped into him; he felt it going down his throat, felt it touch his bones, felt it touch – something else. Something he wasn't sure still existed in him, after all he'd done. The pasta wasn't as good as it would have been fresh from the oven, but it was here, it was real and it was warm.

He hadn't had warm food in a long time.

He ate, and thought of his picture, laughing; thought of Wufei, worrying; thought of the unnamed artist, watching, and suddenly didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Hysteria, not good, but he'd been on the verge of it for a while and it didn't quite bother him anymore; laughter and tears were things of the past – until recently.

He ate, and savoured every bite, and every bit of warmth, and it was as if he was safe, protected, warm arms around him holding off the cold outside.

He ate, and if he'd known he was smiling, softly, sadly, he'd have stopped immediately, but he didn't know, and he didn't. If anyone else had seen his smile, the first word that would have come to their minds was – peace.

Later he'd fight to keep his eyes open, to keep the neat printed words from blurring. Later he'd get stiff, and cramped, from hours of sitting in the same spot, analyzing numbers and fine print. Later he'd feel the cold, and the loneliness. For now, though, in his small kitchen, in the darkest hours of the night, Duo ate, and felt a sense of peace he hadn't realized he could still feel.

* * *

This is dedicated to anyone who's ever felt lost, and then found again by a smile, a phone call, a chance meeting with a friend, or a warm bowl of soup. 

Thank you to all who are still reading this, and this is dedicated to you, too. Hope you liked.

Thanks very much to all who read, and reviewed as well. Knowing that people still take the time to read, and comment, really does inspire me to finish this as quickly as possible. I'd just give up otherwise.

And, uh, to those who aren't very happy withme for posting a new story...? I'm sorry! I will refrain from posting any new stories in the future, but it's just that I have so many written it seems a waste... maybe I should just post them on my LJ and be done with it.

**Ashen Skies  
**"_He hadn't had warm food in a long time."_


	4. Monday the Eighteenth

**Disclaimer:** Ashen, despite her most fervent wishes, does not own and does not have any relation to Gundam Wing and its affliates. Ashen is not making any profit from writing this, nor does she have permission to.

**Pairings:** 1x2x1, probable mentions of 3x4

**Summary:** Duo's exhausted, overworking himself to the point of death – and he welcomes it all with open arms. But then he finds mysterious drawings appearing, showing him what he'd lost, and he begins to rethink his life...

* * *

**A Thousand Words**

_Four_

_

* * *

_

_True friends stab you in the front._ – Oscar Wilde

* * *

He made a little bet with himself, standing in front of his office door on Monday morning. _See Duo in this corner, ladies and gentlemen, full of confidence, as steady as they come, look at him, I wouldn't like to take him on, not me, not with those odds! But ah – here we have a brave soul, what a cocky little lad, from the land of dee-nial, he won't let the winning streak of our Duo go unchallenged, what a plucky guy, let's cheer for, yes, Other-Duo, people! C'mon, give it up!_

Fingers moved. The knob turned. The door opened…

Revealing an office bare of any traces of white sketching paper.

_OH that was a good one! En-tire-ly unexpected, all – Other-Duo's a black horse, that's what he is! Duo's down, people – the question is, is he getting up?_

What…? He'd been so sure – after going to so much trouble, after finding a hot dinner on his kitchen table every night since one week ago – no one, _no one_, would just… stop. Two Mondays had seen drawings, why not today? Why trace his history – why follow him around – why all that time spent, and just… he scanned the office again.

Nothing.

Really nothing.

_Aaaand we have a winner! What a show! What a fight! Other-Duo, everyone, our new champion!_

He was going insane, he was sure of it. What he wasn't sure of was if that feeling simmering in him was relief or disappointment. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, either. No, wait, scratch that – he was _sure_ he didn't want to know. He didn't need to, either. It wasn't worth bothering with, the important thing was that he was safe now, alone again and _what that made him feel didn't matter at all dammit_ and he could get on with work in peace. Relative peace. It didn't matter how or why or anything now.

_Will there still be dinner tonight?_ a plaintive voice asked inside him. Appalled at himself, Duo realized that he'd gotten used to the warm, filling food. _Used_ to it, to an impossible act of kindness that he didn't deserve. He firmly told himself that whether there was food or not tonight didn't matter. He should be wary of the food, not so – so foolishly accepting. Someone was breaking into his house nightly, for god's sake! He was sure he should be feeling horrified at the thought, but he couldn't bring himself to. It wasn't as if anything was stolen anyway.

He knew how weak he was being, but decided that he didn't need to care. As long as he wasn't dead – who was he to question someone else's case of Chronic Food-Leaving Disease?

Besides, that same voice in his head told him that the perpetrator could only be one of four people, and he would trust them with his life. He had no proof, no wish to prove it as long as the person remained out of sight. He would let it continue, if only because he couldn't dredge up the courage to confront them head on.

_Coward._

_Yes._

Stepping quietly into the office he shut the door behind him, shut all thoughts and all feelings, such unimportant things, shut them all out in the hallway and his life and went to his desk. Chair, briefcase, papers. Table, files, papers. Tray, in-and-out, papers. Paper, it was all bloody _paper_, he spared a thought for the millions of dead trees but couldn't bring himself to care so much about the trees as the bloody person who had thought of the idea in the first place. Whoever it was must have hated trees to the core, sat there and glared at the leaves and bark and asked himself _okay, what can I do to kill trees in a way that people will love me for it and not mob me like they should_, and come up with _I am a genius! Paper, that's it!_, but still, hatred was no excuse to kill people. Trees.

He should know.

Maybe he should hate the person who came after the first tree-hater and thought, _Who cares if we have computers, I hate trees and I'm going to come up with some stupid law that insists that paperwork must come in both hard and soft copies._

When he got to hell, he would spend eternity searching for those two, and kill them very, very slowly. Probably he'd have to wait his turn in a line of trees, though, and trees and other assorted humans who'd been subjected to… _bureaucracy_. And then had been driven insane and did frownable things and got sent to hell.

There was a moment where his brain stopped working, and then Duo hit himself on the forehead.

_What the hell am I thinking?_

A night with no sleep at all apparently screwed up the brain and made it fire random synapses of insanity. Damn the idiot who'd tried to cheat him. He ought to seek him out, man-to-man, personal business, not work business at all, oh no, just wanted to have a little chat with you, Mr Barker, nice and friendly. All said through a smile that had teeth.

Sighing, he pushed that idea out of his head and focused blearily on the self-multiplying pieces of documents on his table. This was really work for accountants, firms that specialized in this sort of thing and all the legal court procedures that followed, but he didn't want to spend the money when, with time and lots of patience – ha, patience, but he _would_ find some if it killed him – he could do it himself and use the money for better purposes.

He made it a point to donate a significant amount of money to orphanages every few months, after all, and he'd hate to fall short of the money he'd sent before.

Working through his lunch break, absent-mindedly gnawing on a ration bar around the time, only made a small dent in the stack of paperwork and absolutely no headway in Mr Barker's documents. He didn't have enough _evidence_ to prove the man's deceit, he just _knew_, but _I have a very bad feeling about him_ wouldn't cut it in public. It would only have worked in the war, where you learnt to rely on your instincts and your teammates did, too, because every one of them knew that you knew people way better than they did, even Quatre who was the expert in diplomacy, because diplomacy was for the high-ups. Duo knew the streets and the common man, and they trusted his judgement, trusted _him_…

He cut that line of thought off harshly. It led to dangerous places.

The next time he looked up from his desk, the clock said six; since when had it rolled around to six? He hadn't noticed the sky growing dark, the sound of movement outside growing softer… he looked up just in time to catch the door opening slightly and a pair of eyes peer through.

His secretary blinked when she saw that her employer was looking back at her. "Mr Adams? Everyone's gone home… you should pack up, sir, and do the same. If I may say so, sir, you look quite tired. I could help you pack your briefcase while you go splash a little water on your face? It's not safe to go around at night half-asleep."

He had to admit that she was probably right… not that he was worried about security, but he was worried about missing his stop and wasting even more time. "Thank you, Ms Jones… that would be helpful," he said quietly, giving her a tired smile. "Could you put this stack in the briefcase… this file, too, and this one. Leave the rest neatly piled on the desk."

"Of course, Mr Adams."

When he came out of the bathroom, his desk was neat and his briefcase already padlocked shut. He'd hired Ms Jones because she hadn't had much previous experience, and that was always bad to other employers, but he'd seen potential and her competency had proved to be solid. She offered the briefcase to him with a smile, and he took it with murmured thanks. Locking the office door behind him, he accompanied her on her round around the office, making small talk as they double-checked everything, and turned off the lights. He asked her about the little vacation she was taking for the rest of the week with her boyfriend, and she practically glowed as she talked about what they would do. He has to smile at her excitement, and thought wistfully about when he had last felt something so… light.

"You should take a break yourself, Mr Adams. It'll do you good," she said suddenly, breaking off mid-ramble as they left the lift, on their way out of the building.

He laughed, caught off-guard. Normally she was quiet, but it seemed that her anticipation was causing her personality to show tonight. "I've too much to do right now, but thank you for the concern."

She gave him a surprisingly bright smile with a sort of… satisfaction? "Well then, when your workload lessens, remember to treasure that time. Good night, Mr Adams!" she called as she ran to her boyfriend's waiting car. Bemused, he watched as she waved at him as the car drove away before turning to walk to the bus stop.

* * *

He made a little bet with himself, standing in front of his apartment door on Monday evening. Taking a deep breath, he reached out. Fingers moved. The knob turned. The door… opened. 

_It hadn't been locked._

Unwittingly, a treacherous tendril of _something _he refused to name curled in his stomach. He went in on automatic, locked the door on automatic, and his feet moved automatically in the direction of the kitchen; he wasn't aware that his pace had quickened, his stride lengthened in his haste. He came to an abrupt stop just inside the doorway to the kitchen.

_Lagsane tonight_, his mind noted smugly. _I like lagsane._

Suddenly all strength seemed to go out of his legs. Duo leaned hard against the doorframe, staring at the innocuous set-up on the table – the same folded paper bag, the same take out container, the same little note from Carrie giving him little anecdotes about her day and admonishing him to take care of himself. The same little note… written on good quality sketching paper.

_He hasn't forgotten me._

Immediately on the heels of that thought was, _Why are you so relieved? You're not supposed to rely on anyone anymore, remember? What happens when one day, inevitably, he – whoever it is – does?_

_I'll deal with it when that day comes. For now – I'm just grateful for the food._

And that little voice went, _Liar._ He ignored it.

Pushing himself away from the frame, he put his briefcase on the tabletop and took a fork out from a drawer, pulling a chair out and sitting down. He opened the container, and the smell of the food made his stomach clench. He was now eating one proper meal a day and his body looked forward to it.

Absently he pulled the briefcase over and entered the combination to unlock the padlock as he ate. Letting the lid fall open he found –

Duo choked. Swearing, tears came to his eyes as he coughed, fork dropping from his hand. When he'd gotten his breath back and his eyesight had cleared, he grabbed the briefcase, dinner forgotten, and frantically checked all the pockets. His search yielded nothing except what he'd seen before – namely, _nothing_. No files, no official-looking brain-numbing documents, no paper except – except – his mind finally caught up to what his eyes had noticed and his fingers had felt.

Sketching paper.

A note, written on sketching paper in his secretary's hand, and underneath…

He opened the note, avoiding looking at what was underneath it. He refused to acknowledge it. He was doing a lot of that nowadays.

_Hello Mr Adams! I'm sorry for the presumption on my part, but your friend was so earnest and we at the office all know how hard you've been working, and we've always thought it was a shame you had to take all that work onto yourself. He said it was a surprise for you, we've never seen him before but he knew a lot about you and he had Mr Jaggers with him so we thought it should be fine. The two of them are going to work on your documents so you can get some much-needed rest! Please do. You look like a panda. Those Chinese ones that eat bamboo. Oh, and the drawing's from him too._

_Sincerely, Kelly Jones_

_P.S. He swore me to secrecy on who he was and how he looked like, so don't try asking. When I asked him why, he said that this is what friends do. I wish I had a friend like that – I could go on vacation all the time!_

He re-read the note again, and then put it carefully back into the briefcase. He shut the lid, pushed the case away, and turned back to his rapidly cooling dinner. The food tasted wonderful, but every bite reminded him of what he'd refused to look at. When he finished the last bit, he stared into the empty container and swore under his breath to himself.

Who was he trying to fool?

With jerky, abrupt movements, furious at himself, he flung open the briefcase and snatched the roll of paper from it. He pulled off the red rubber band and threw it somewhere, and then yanked the roll open.

And promptly dropped it from nerveless fingers.

He stared at the paper on the table, which had rolled itself back up, but he didn't need to see the picture drawn on it to remember what it was of. The style was the same, the person drawn impossibly real, and Duo could have almost felt fingers touching his shoulder, hesitant and tentative and terribly sad, as their owner reached out to him with that look on his face, the one that spoke of heartache and worry and helplessness, the look that bared his soul and cast shadows in his bright eyes and made Duo feel like an utter bastard.

Quatre, in a black and white that made his misery all the more stark, and his deep love for the people he called family all the more plain.

He'd never been able to resist the blond with that look, and that outstretched hand had always led to him being enveloped in a full, real hug that shared strength between two weary brothers. The last time he'd felt that hug –

_People always blame others for bad things, Duo. You can't take him seriously –_

_Yes I can, he was right, dammit –_

_He was not. Dying people always say things they don't mean, they panic –_

_I rather think they're entitled to! They're dying!_

_Not because of anyone –_

_Not anyone, no, you're right. Because of me._

_Duo –_

_Because of _me.

_The words stopped there. His throat refused to emit another sound, his eyes stung, his fists clenched and he roughly pushed away the hand on his shoulder, and then Quatre made a low sound of anguish and suddenly he was wrapped in a tight hug and Quatre was murmuring fiercely, each word full of hurting, and he couldn't hold back anymore. Trapped in that embrace, he gave in to that strength and let the tears go, listening to those whispered words._

_Not you, Duo. Not you. Don't ever think that way._

_But he knew Quatre was wrong._

He stared at that paper for what felt like forever, trembling. And then, as if in a dream, he fumbled for his mobile phone and dialled.

Once, twice…

"Hello?"

He froze. Couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't… anything.

"Um, hello? Who is this?"

He could almost see the half-curious, half-impatient set of smiling lips. Could almost see the eyebrows drawn together. He _could_ hear the murmur of voices in the background, and remembered that it was around dinnertime there, too.

_Who is it, love?_

_I don't know, there's no one speaking._

_Maybe something's wrong with the connection?_

_Maybe it's a wrong number._

Trowa. Then Quatre, then Trowa again and then Wufei… he could hear their voices. He could see them sitting at the head of that ridiculously long table in the Winner dining room – or maybe they'd gone for informality today, and ate in the kitchen, though of course the kitchen standards were roughly equivalent to that of a restaurant, in Quatre's mansion. He could see Trowa's raised eyebrow, Wufei's dismissive shrug.

"Hello? I think there might be something wrong with the connection, since I can't hear you… or you might have called a wrong number. This is Quatre, by the way. Does that help? Um."

He closed his eyes, and it was that day again, his words stuck in his throat, unable to voice what he wanted to say, though he didn't really have anything to say. It had all been said. What else was there?

Suddenly he painfully, achingly wanted a hug. And what was worse was that he didn't want it to be from Quatre; he wanted it from a familiar set of arms, a wonderfully familiar body with unbelievable strength that always cradled him so carefully despite the fact that either of them could kill with their bare hands. A familiarity that had been the hardest to forget. He wanted… he wanted –

_Heero_.

A wave of loneliness and desperation washed over him, leaving his chest feeling too-tight and his eyes blurring.

On the other side of the line, there was a sharply drawn breath.

_Quatre? Quat-love, what's wrong?_

_Winner, are you alright?_

There was the sound of chairs scraping the floor, pushed back from a table.

_Quatre. Look at me._

_Trowa, he's bone white –_

The voices grew louder, approaching the phone, but then suddenly fell silent. And then, a voice catching, stumbling, tripping over itself, breaking –

"Duo?"

He should never have let the picture affect him so much. He should never have given in to his weakness. He should never have called. He should cut the line now.

He clutched the phone tighter in his fingers, and didn't say a word.

"Duo. I… don't know what to say. I miss you. We all miss you. Not only the four of us, but everyone else, too. No one blames you. We want you back. Please…" Quatre's voice was a whisper. "Please come back.

"Come home."

A sob escaped Duo's throat, and he pulled the phone away from his ear, jabbed wildly at the button that would cut off the connection and got it on the third try, and then dropped the thing on the table. He swayed on his feet, staring at it and the drawing next to it, fighting the almost overpowering urge to call back, to give up his life of the past six months and return. He managed to fight it down, but that took all his strength, and after he staggered over to the kitchen wall, he slid down to curl into himself, put his head in his hands and cried.

* * *

Sometimes it really does take all your strength to stay strong, and not give in to the tears. Sometimes all you can do is hold yourself together until you get to a safe place, an alone place, where you can cry with abandon. Sometimes what you want scares the shit out of you. 

Whee. Poor Duo. (:

Exams are O-VER. Thank you all for waiting! This here is a nice long chapter to thank you properly and to make up for the wait.

And thank you verymuch for reading.

**Ashen Skies  
**"_On the other side of the line, there was a sharply drawn breath."_


	5. Third Week

**Disclaimer:** Ashen, despite her most fervent wishes, does not own and does not have any relation to Gundam Wing and its affliates. Ashen is not making any profit from writing this, nor does she have permission to.

**Pairings:** 1x2x1, probable mentions of 3x4

**Summary:** Duo's exhausted, overworking himself to the point of death – and he welcomes it all with open arms. But then he finds mysterious drawings appearing, showing him what he'd lost, and he begins to rethink his life...

* * *

**A Thousand Words**

_Five_

_

* * *

_

_Silence is one of the hardest arguments to refute._ – Josh Billings

* * *

They wouldn't even let him step into the office the next day.

He glared at them from the outside of the glass doors; glared, knocked hard, gestured rudely – to no effect. For once all his employees were in the office before him, the very fact confirming that it had been an office-wide conspiracy, not just an act of folly on his secretary's part, though she no doubt was one of the main instigators of those conspirators, plotters, schemers and conniving connivers that were grinning at him widely through the damned glass.

He narrowed his eyes, and then, waving, made sure he had their full attention before mouthing, enunciating very clearly, _I will fire you all_, but they merely smiled indulgently, even those _younger_ than he was, which clearly had to be against some law of senior-junior relationships. Age-wise, or position-wise. He couldn't hear what they said, not that they were saying much – most of them were laughing – but one of them scribbled something on a piece of paper and walked closer, holding it out so he could see that it said:

_Get some rest! We're taking over for the week!_

He growled low in his throat, a snarling guttural sound that had sent tremors of fear through even the most hardened of soldiers – but those in the office could not hear him, and it was in vain; they merely pulled back a little at the look on his face, but still rallying together in the certainty that they were doing him good; clearly they hadn't fully grasped the meaning of the phrase _'the road to hell is paved with good intentions'_, or the tried-and-true _'mind your own damned business'_, or even the clichéd but certainly still applicable _'fuck off'_.

Somewhere in his aching head he remembered something he'd read once, someone saying _be glad they respect you so much they don't listen to you_, and some part of him knew this was true of his current situation, but the rest of him was in a terrible mood due to last night's phone call. That, and not getting any work done, and tossing and turning all night long due to a whole herd of nightmares, so gleeful with their newfound freedom what with the unusual amount of rest he'd had the chance to catch that they'd galloped all over his sub-consciousness, waking him up every few minutes.

After the third such hour he'd gotten up and installed himself by the balcony rail, wrapped securely in a blanket with only his face left exposed to the wind, and sat there staring blankly out at the city until dawn. It had been cold, but it was a cold that at least kept him awake; getting little sleep was likely to be less disastrous for his mental health than actually sleeping.

Since he'd been awake when dawn, well, dawned, for once he'd been able to take his time with his meal, actually making the effort to prepare something; drinking hot coffee instead of gulping down tap water, making hot pancakes – the ready-made flour had expired long ago, but he didn't give a damn – instead of a ration bar hastily chewed while running out of the apartment. The warmth it gave him was delicious. He'd become so used to the cold that hot food, hot drinks, were rarities – until recently of course – and the dinners he'd been inhaling every night the past week were minor miracles, things he didn't expect to last. At least that was what he'd made himself believe; some part of him – some part of him _knew_.

He didn't want to know, and so he ignored it.

While in the midst of eating, though, a nagging sense of unease had crept up on him. He felt… useless. He'd been wasting time the whole night; he didn't _have_ any work to do even if he had wanted to, since his latest documents were always in his briefcase and the extra copies in his office and not his home, but that didn't make his feeling of guilt go away. That he actually had the chance to savour his food made things worse. That he had been so weak, so helpless, as to have dialled that number and crumbled at that voice…

If he let himself fall now, what of the oath he'd sworn to repay all his debts? What he'd done so far had made barely a dent, he knew; he couldn't let himself be weak, not yet. He couldn't waste a second of repentance.

Which was why he was so furious now, locked out on the wrong side of the doors, and not even the thought that his employees respected him enough to disobey him could calm his mood any.

One of the senior employees, Tam, took pity on him; Duo watched him write for a while and then approach to slip the paper under the doors. He picked it up, unfolded it, read.

_Mr Adams, please let us do this one thing for you. A week of rest isn't much, but it's a lot compared to what we know you've been getting. We'll finish all we need to and more, this week, with the help of your friend, so rest assured that the work will be well covered. You'll be all the better for some rest._

There it was again, that mention of a friend; the note he'd gotten from Kelly had said so, but it had slipped his mind – no, not slipped, he had to laugh at his own pathetic lie, he'd ignored that line, ignored what it implied, ignored the consequences of acknowledging it. He fumbled a pen out of his briefcase and flipped the paper over to write; holding it up to the glass, he gestured to the words: _What friend?_

Tam paused, and then picked up one of the office phones and dialled. Duo's phone rang.

"What friend?" he demanded as soon as he'd picked up the call.

"He was with Mr Jaggers, who vouched for him, so we felt okay going along with his plan. Mr Adams, we really –"

"What did he look like? What relation did he say he was to me? What was his name?"

"We all promised we wouldn't tell, Mr Adams, sorry. He said it was a surprise –"

"Fine, _fine_, yes, I can't force you to break a promise. He was with Jaggers?"

"Yes."

"Fine. I'll go sort things out with him and _then_ I'll deal with all of you." Spinning on his heel, Duo cut the connection, slipped the phone into his pocket, stalked down the hallway without a glance back; lift button, floor numbers, an open door, _finally_. Why were lifts so slow nowadays? Buses, too, he noted grimly, waiting for the bus, which took forever to come; Murphy's Law was the defining principle of his life. The fates up there just _loved_ to play with his own, they were probably bored out of their minds knitting out lives for eternity and felt the urge to screw up one poor sod's life every century or so. It had just happened to be his turn, this time; the thought didn't please him at all and it showed in his expression. People on the sidewalk moved out of his way in a hurry.

The people who'd been unlucky enough to cross his way to Jaggers' office, however, might as well have owned a whole field of four-leafed clovers and a kitchen drowned in lopped-off rabbits' feet compared to those unlucky enough to cross his way when he left it.

He exploded from the glass doors like a Fury, one of those Norse gods; not _in_ a fury, because that wasn't good enough to explain what he felt, what he breathed, what he was, and what he _was_ was a Fury in the throes of avenging demon-ness, and he'd never felt this, this white-hot – no, _blue-_hot because the hottest flames were blue – this blue-hot light-headed anger since he was a pilot and he'd just seen so very many children die under the hands of bored soldiers.

He _hated_ being kept in the dark, being toyed with and manipulated and spun blindfolded under the piñata while hands pushed him along with taunts and jeers; hated it and abhorred it with every bit of his being; blue-flame loathed it with blue-flame vehemence until he wanted to lash out and break something. Maybe break a damned piñata, just so he could have the satisfaction of hoarding all the sweets for himself and letting no one else have them. Not that he liked sweets that much, some of them he _hated,_ though maybe with an orange flame this time because no one could hate sweets with anything hotter than an orange flame, even if some people thought hoards of sugar and butter and a microscopic amount of cocoa made chocolate, and _gods_ he hated those people, too. Chocolate wasn't chocolate until it had at _least_ fifty percent cocoa, he'd have thought everyone understood that and he hated the bloody cheapskates who tried to pass off their less-than-fifty-percent-cocoa products as _chocolate_.

By the time his legs were starting to get tired from belligerently pounding into the pavement with every stride, his anger had more or less dissipated, though a long series of random thoughts that always worked to first shift his anger from his initial target, and then to distract him long enough so that he cooled down. Though he did still seethe a little at the memory of Jaggers' calm poker face and his _I'm sorry, Mr Adams, but I have been sworn to secrecy and in my line we take such oaths seriously_, but that was also more or less made better by the memory of the glaze-eyed horror as he'd elaborated very vocally and in drawn-out detail what Jaggers could do with that oath. Jaggers usually was cool as frozen hydrogen; not this time, facing Duo down in his rampage. But he'd _still_ not given up the identity of the mysterious 'friend'.

Not that Duo'd been trying very hard to actually _force_ the information out of him; an oath was an oath, a promise was a promise, after all. He couldn't make someone do something he himself wouldn't do; so many years and so many deaths and yet he still took promises so seriously, he'd laugh at himself only he wouldn't because it helped redeem his honour, somehow. If only a little.

No, he'd laugh at himself for different reasons entirely, and did laugh at himself sometimes. Like now. So many years and so many deaths and yet he still couldn't lie to himself very well; that little voice always popped up, and all he could do was shove it away and hope it didn't come back anytime soon.

_You didn't force him to tell you not because you respected his oath. You didn't force him to tell you because you were afraid of what he would say if you succeeded._

Fear was an insidious thing, and it ruled every action of his, every breath. He'd never felt this hunted even with multiple lasers trained on his body.

He pushed that thought away, too. He was getting good at it, with so much practice.

Somehow he'd ended up in the more happening parts of the mostly sleepy town; he checked his watch and found it was just before lunch time. What the hell, there was no point in returning to the office and getting even more worked up. He'd just have to slip back in sometime at night, when they'd all gone; pick the lock, pick up his documents, go home to work on them. Which left him an entire afternoon and evening to relax and do nothing in.

What a strange concept.

He chose a café on the second floor of a row of terrace-house shop-houses, because it seemed nice and quiet, and it'd give him a nice view of the street and the passers-by, observing without being involved. He ordered a sandwich, the cheapest one they had, though a part of him still pointed out the frivolity of spending money on actual lunch when he had ration bars in his bag, but he was feeling contrary enough to ignore that, too. He even ordered a simple coffee; black, but good enough, and then took his meal to one of the two-seater tables near the full-length glass window panel overlooking the scenery.

Food. He had a meal. An actual meal. It was surreal.

Oh, look, he just rhymed.

He ate slowly, taking time to taste each mouthful; the sandwich wasn't hot, but it wasn't plain or bland and so it was delicious. He drank his coffee; the richness of it told his tongue that it wasn't any cheap three-in-one blend, or something out of a packet, rather it was real ground coffee beans, and good quality ones at that. He savoured that, too. The ambience in the café was pleasant, with soft gentle music – not _muzak_, thank the gods – and the hum of murmured conversation; the view outside the café was soothing, oblivious pedestrians laughing, frowning, hurrying, strolling, _living_. It was peaceful. He could relax here, he thought, and accept this pleasure given to him for just this one afternoon.

He could stay like this, for a while.

* * *

This was insane. He'd gone insane, he was sure of it; his eyes had left him for some alternate reality and came back with photographs of their vacation and imprinted those photos on his sight, on his mind. This was insane. 

He said it out loud: "Someone did my paperwork."

Out loud, it not only sounded even _more_ insane, but it also sounded slightly ridiculous.

The problem was, it _wasn't_ all that funny. He'd sneaked back into his own office, only to find a folder waiting on his desk. He'd opened it, of course, only to be stunned by its contents. Legal documents with numbers circled here and there, tallies and calculations made at the margins in pencil, question marks and underlined conclusions; a paper trail, slowly but surely exposing the fraud that he'd been working on. Mr Barker had covered his tracks carefully, but someone else had even more painstakingly uncovered them, found bits and pieces of evidence that added up into a damning whole. He'd worked _so hard_ for the past few weeks trying to find what was now laid out so plainly in the folder, and despite his efforts he hadn't found anything _near_ as substantial as what whoever had done this had found in, apparently, one day.

His legs gave way, and he collapsed into his chair, staring at the folder. Perhaps he really _had_ been working too hard, so much that he couldn't think straight… no, wait, what was he thinking? That wasn't the issue right now. His problem was how the _hell_ had whoever it was, found out that he was working on Barker? He hadn't even told his employees, or spoken of it; the files had been secret, he'd worked on them in secret and they'd been locked away in secret, and… how? _How?_

Reaching out, he picked up the folder, and as he did a piece of paper fluttered out; he picked it up and knew instantly. He recognized the paper, the feel of it, the significance of it; he'd been seeing and touching and living with this paper for two weeks counting now.

He looked down, hardly daring to read; it was typewritten – giving no clues as to the writer, a part of him noted immediately – and said simply: _Trust me._

Like hell.

That fear welled up again, strong and crushing, a tidal wave edged in the white foam of some emotion that he couldn't, wouldn't recognize. He felt like screaming, and took a few deep, calming breaths instead; it wasn't as satisfying, but it would have to do.

_Trust me_.

Paper, pocket; file, briefcase; lights, doors, lock. His movements were jerky, rushed, as if trying to escape from something. Button, lift, door again. Bus-stop – no. He couldn't just sit there, stewing, waiting for the bus to come, waiting for the bus to go, waiting, sitting, waiting, waiting… His grip tightened on his briefcase, and he walked past the bus-stop, walked quickly, faster and faster until he was running, full-tilt and dizzy and heart and wind thundering in him, past him, through him, just running. He pushed his weakened body so hard that he felt himself overbalancing, tripping over his own feet, momentum carrying his body forward when his steps couldn't keep up, and he was falling, falling…

Arms caught him, and fear so intense that he couldn't breathe, couldn't see, swamped him.

"Hey, man, you okay?"

An unfamiliar voice. An unfamiliar embrace. He stumbled upright, feeling the hands let go, shaking hands pushing his bangs back as he smiled weakly at the teenage boy and his girlfriend looking at him curiously and little worriedly. People in this town were so trusting, so unguarded… he felt his panic ease a little. "Yeah. I'm fine now. Thanks."

"No prob. Take care of yourself, yeah? Night, mister." The girl echoed the sentiment, and he returned it; they went their separate ways, the couple forgetting him already, wrapped up in themselves. He watched after them for a breath, two, before wrenching himself away.

Gods, his life was becoming one long soap opera. Why wasn't he _doing_ anything useful to get to the bottom of this mess? Why was he being so bloody weak? He was like one of those weepy female maidens, making a huge fuss out of little things, throwing a fit of epic proportions over big ones, crying, panicking, jumping to conclusions, always needing to be saved, like Rel –

He bit hard on his own lip, and cut off that train of thought.

The problem was, really, that if he did anything, he'd find other things that he really, really did not want to remember existed, let alone find. He knew that whoever it was had planned on that – and no, he didn't know who it might be, he _refused_ to know, or guess, or think about the identity of the artist.

This is what he would do. He would go home, and eat dinner, and look through the folder while he was at it, see what he could gather, and the task would likely take the next day as well, after which he would at night go back to the office and look for other documents he might peruse, and he would do this until the week was up and his workers regained their sanity. There. Nothing to worry about, all he had to do was stick to the plan.

It wasn't until he got home and entered the kitchen, seeing the takeaway food on his table, that he realized with dread that the 'dinner' part of his plan had come all too naturally. He'd assumed it would be there, ready for him, it felt _natural_ that it should be there, he'd grown so used to having it in his life… dinner. Such an innocuous concept with such terrible consequences. It made him feel like a kept dog, a kept pet, predictable, _toyed with_.

In the end he gave in and ate it.

It said something about his life that the decision to eat a meal was a long, torturous process.

He told himself it would be a betrayal of Carrie if he didn't, and besides, he was too tired, too wrung out, and left it at that. At times like this he wondered if he had multiple personalities, talking to each other, waging psychological wars.

A bath, because his shirt was soaked with sweat, and when he came out immediately sat down at the desk in his bedroom to look through the folder. The documents were neatly arranged, so that he could tell the work wasn't complete; there was missing links, suspicions… nothing really concrete, or damning… or truly valid in a court of law…

His head jerked back up from where it had sunk down to his chest. He _really_ couldn't think straight anymore, he was so tired, and his bed, long unused behind him, was looking really inviting right now. It must have been the afternoon of relaxation – his body, used to constant tension, must have thought the rest was a sign that it was okay to let go.

Just a few minutes, then. He'd probably be woken by nightmares in short order anyway.

Just a few minutes…

* * *

Warm, soft, comfortable, quiet; brightness, and he turned his head away, burrowing deeper into the blessed gentle dark. Cool morning air, fresh and light, against his cheek, through his hair, the rest of him protected by the blanket pulled up to his chin. 

The blanket…? _Morning_ air?

His mind, drowsy and numbed with sleep, struggled to make sense of things. There was a heaviness to his limbs, slow and languid, loose and relaxed; a peacefulness in his mind, quiet and empty, unhurried and lethargic. He remembered this feeling from a long time ago, one time when weeks of fighting, of sleeping late and waking early at the sound of alarms and attacking machines, had led to exhaustion and then to a week of rest from the war. That night he'd dropped into bed and into sleep instantly, and that first morning he'd woken up with this – this feeling of calm from a deep sleep, with no nightmares to break his mind.

He'd slept 'til morning?

Blearily he opened his eyes, looked around; he was in bed, tucked in, stripped to his underwear from the feel of it. He didn't remember that. He didn't remember undressing, or getting into bed, but he must have, so it meant that he really _had_ been tired… but tired enough to sleep so soundly, so deeply, that he hadn't even had nightmares? His stomach didn't even hurt from hunger; he'd been eating well – better than normal, anyway – for a while now, and yesterday's lunch, made less sinful by the rather more sinful dinner of seafood bolognaise, had helped to ease his nerves. It was hard to be tense and panicky and stressed on a full stomach.

He decided not to think so much about things; he was feeling too good to bother about unnecessary things. He got out of bed smiling faintly, stretching, and wandered into the bathroom to wash up; he took his time to make breakfast, a feast of two half-boiled eggs (which took all his concentration and a considerable amount of skill, after all, you had to watch the egg very carefully or it would either be over- or under-cooked) and toast with kaya jam and butter, a combination Wu – _someone_ had shown him, a long time ago. Coffee, freshly brewed, with real coffee beans, and he added a sprinkle of cocoa powder just for variety. He read the newspaper, and then, coffee mug in hand, went to find a book he'd meant to finish but never got around to starting.

He made himself an omelette for lunch, a simple one with the last of the eggs he had and cheese and some pre-packaged ham, which wasn't as good as fresh ham but he never had any fresh ham, anyway, having little chance to eat it or go shopping. Come to think of it, he needed to go grocery shopping soon, so why not today?

Grocery shopping took up most of the afternoon, because he decided to walk there and breathe some fresh air. Other than the staple, keep-able food, he'd bought some chocolate – a rare treat – and some ham. He could always eat it plain. On the way back he passed by a bookstore, and was suddenly struck by the urge to browse – he'd always loved bookstores, loved the smell of them, the shelves upon shelves, the delight each time he found a good book. He hadn't gone into a bookstore, for such a long time.

He went in.

It was night by the time he emerged, with three new books added to his hoard. He knew he'd just splurged, but he was oddly fine with that. The unlocked door and the dinner waiting for him on his table were just part of his day, and he accepted it with good grace and even a little cheerfulness about the free food – a definite first. The memories of yesterday, the past few days, the past weeks, were hazy and unimportant.

He passed the rest of the week in a similarly placid state, sleeping well, eating well, feeling not one bit guilty about it. It was… restful. Even his skin regained some shade of its previously healthy colour. He didn't even bother going back to the office at night to check for files, after the first two nights had yielded nothing. The hours passed in a dream.

* * *

It took him until Sunday to figure out that he was being drugged.

* * *

Finally! Done! And here's a nice long chapter to make up for the long wait. 

It doesn't take a genius to guess what kind of reaction Duo will have.

Sometimes, when you stay awake for the entire night, you're filled with this indescribable hyper energy, like you just ate four bars of chocolate and drank two jars of coffee in a row. Then at the end of the day you crash and burn. The important thing is, though, how you feel during that day… dream-like, insulated in a little sound bubble of movement and light. Like Duo being drugged.

And sometimes, when someone betrays you in some small but terribly painful way, and brushes it off like it's nothing, or says it's for your own good or some crap, and you want to cry but refuse to give them the pleasure, or show exactly how much you're affected by it… that's a bubble, too.

**Ashen Skies  
**"_He could stay like this, for a while."_


	6. Monday the Twentyfifth

**Disclaimer:** Ashen, despite her most fervent wishes, does not own and does not have any relation to Gundam Wing and its affliates. Ashen is not making any profit from writing this, nor does she have permission to.

**Pairings:** 1x2x1, probable mentions of 3x4

**Summary:** Duo's exhausted, overworking himself to the point of death – and he welcomes it all with open arms. But then he finds mysterious drawings appearing, showing him what he'd lost, and he begins to rethink his life...

* * *

**A Thousand Words**

_Six_

* * *

_Courage is the art of being the only one who knows you're scared to death. _– Harold Wilson

* * *

He smiled, waved, chatted about his week, smiled, asked how they'd coped alone, smiled, thanked them, yes-I-do-feel-rested, smiled.

His face hurt.

Nonetheless, he continued smiling, continued his charade of politeness and gratefulness and everything-is-fine-ness. His workers were innocents, he reminded himself, led along unknowingly in a larger scheme masterminded by someone else, led along and blinded. They only had his best interests at heart, and they didn't have the full story. It wouldn't be fair to take things out on them.

Never mind that he felt like screaming with every laugh, with every smile. Never mind that he felt like shaking each and every one of them and yelling, "Wake _up_, you assholes, you've all been tricked, you're just being _used_!"

They – whoever they were, he didn't _care_ anymore, it wouldn't make a difference – they'd _drugged_ him. Drugged _him_!

He couldn't let anyone see how torn up he was inside, though. He couldn't let anyone see how lost he felt. Everything was supposed to be normal, to be _better_ than before. He was supposed to be _great_.

He didn't feel great. He didn't feel good at all.

He made it into his office, the supply of well-wishers assuring themselves they'd done the right thing finally running out. Giving his audience one last smile, he closed the door and collapsed.

Against the door, he dropped his forehead onto his knees, taking deep shuddering breaths, oblivious to the creases in his freshly pressed clothes. The world was pressing in on him, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't do this, but he had to, he had to. He was fucking _weak_, so stupidly, stupidly weak. How had this ever happened? How had he become so weak that he'd let himself rely on someone, trust someone he'd never seen, let himself be drugged for a bloody _week_? How had he become so weak that he actually felt hurt, felt frayed and bewildered and betrayed by someone he wasn't supposed to trust in the first place?

He was scared. God he was so, so scared.

Then he looked up, and into Trowa's eyes.

Cold clammy hands stifled the scream that almost broke out, and it took Duo a moment to realize that they were his, his body reacting before his mind could catch up. It wouldn't do for those outside to hear his breakdown. His body began to shake, and whether it was with hysterical laughter or tears, he didn't know.

Charcoal eyes that somehow hinted at a diamond green in the black-and-white reflected light captured on paper; wind-tousled bangs etched in the light, broad sweep of a pencil. A long, serious face, that of a scholar; a long lean torso, that of a gymnast, an acrobat. The serious, steady disposition that so perfectly balanced Quatre's lighter one, reproduced through the slightest variation in line widths, grey shades, subtle angles. Trowa, poised on the edge of making one of his brilliantly sharp, uncomfortably insightful statements that managed to get you in so many unexpected ways and made you feel like an idiot.

Trowa, sketched on a familiar piece of white paper, taped to the edge of his desk.

He reached out with a hand that he was vaguely surprised to see trembling, and then let it fall to his side again; the table was too far away, but he couldn't get up. His legs didn't have any strength left in them. Trowa's penciled gaze bore into him, and he could almost hear the other man's voice –

He _could_ hear a voice. Not Trowa's, but someone oddly familiar.

"– _do I think when I think of Duo Maxwell? Where'd that come from? But okay. Hmm. Right now I'd have to say I'm worried, he's been gone for months without a word, he might be doing something stupid again like the time he tried to stop that whole gang by himself with only a pomfret. Okay, so he actually succeeded, but still. Crazy. He takes too much on himself, it's not healthy, you know? I mean, he's one of the greatest guys I know, but he needs to learn to relax a bit. Take things a little less seriously. It's too bad that some idiots see his past before anything else, that's _their_ loss of course, but I know he takes them seriously too and that's pretty stupid, because they're not worth worrying about. Anyone who knows Duo knows they're lucky to know him. And that's that._"

Benny, one of his co-workers, a cheerful guy who'd had his brother killed in the war. A brother who'd been OZ, which raised the possibility of the killer being…

"_Duo Maxwell? I don't mind telling you, half the girls on my floor have crushes on him, and if I didn't already have a boyfriend I'd be in danger myself. Not only is he hot, but he's one of the nicest guys I've known or even heard of. He always gives a proper answer to any confessions, and that's rare for a guy, that consideration. He always greets people with their names, and that's rare for a girl, even. Plus he's always willing to help out and all. The girls have been pretty worried for him for a while now, he acted odd after that incident and then he disappeared, right? I hope he's okay._"

Sandy, who worked on the fifteenth floor, three down from his own. She always sneaked him a cup of coffee on the sly; the brews that the girls there made were way better than the ones on his own floor.

"_Maxwell, huh? Heard he disappeared some time ago, not that it's my business. Can't say I like the guy much, the Gundams killed some of my friends in the war, yeah? So we'll never be buddies or anything. But I guess I respect him as a person. He treats people right, and he's so clean it's freaky. But that's cool. And, yeah, in the war we all didn't have much choice, and it was a freaking _war_, so killing's unavoidable. I get that. So I'm okay with him._"

On and on it went: voices from a past that had becomes so distant these few months, a past that was now violently brought back in full colour, complete with sound and depth and non-grainy resolution, with each passing moment. Sometimes a rambling paragraph, sometimes only a few brief words, all from people he knew around the office, whether it was a passing acquaintance or a closer co-worker. Voices he'd almost never expected to hear again.

Voices telling him that they liked him, they missed him, they respected him, even after all he had done, all he had been responsible for... voices telling him that they loved him.

It made his head hurt.

He sat frozen through the whole thing, struggling to keep his feelings under control. It was hard – the drugs were still in his system, which when combined with the antidotes he'd taken to neutralize them faster, made his emotions more volatile, his control fragile. He didn't know what was happening anymore. He didn't know what to think, how to react. He'd never fared well with drugs, his body either metabolising them too fast or reacting unpredictably even to over-the-shelf mixtures. It was already a miracle that he wasn't convulsing or foaming at the mouth, only experiencing emotional upheavals, what with the rat's nest of drugs he'd consumed. It was a miracle that the drug he'd been fed the past week had worked so smoothly and so efficiently.

Miracles were good explanations to have. They glossed over the possibility that there were other reasons behind drugs that worked too well.

Such as people who knew him too well.

Shit, what a mess.

They'd _drugged_ him.

He stood up – it took a couple of tries before his legs steadied enough to straighten, and his body to ride out the minor attacks of vertigo. He threw the mini player with its CD inside into the bin, together with the small set-up that had triggered the player when he opened the door. He didn't examine it too closely, what was the use, what was the _point_? He didn't need to know anything else besides how to concentrate on his work. The past few weeks – what past few weeks? Just a dream, a bad dream, and the past few days a fucking _nightmare_.

Gritting his teeth, he concentrated and one by one, steadily, he pulled up his memories of war, of fighting through pain and through drugs, of being poised on the edge of battle every day. Of _forcing_ yourself to be at your best despite everything. He felt the effects of his drug-frenzy recede – the drugs had been a really bad idea, now that he was in a slightly clearer state of mind, but yesterday when he'd first realized what was happening he'd panicked, and _that_ was an understatement – and though he knew he'd pay later in the evening, it was enough to keep him going for the day. The day was all he needed, right now.

Memories of fire keeping his weaknesses at bay, he went to his desk, sat down, and reached out for the nearest stack of paper. His life was now about nothing else but his work, and by the gods, he would do it until it killed him.

He would not give _anyone_ the satisfaction of one-upping him. Even if it was at his own expense, because he knew better than anyone what all this – reverting back to wartime practices, resurrecting his memories as a shield, the drugs – would cost him, cost him dearly. But he would do it, because he had to. The past week had taken _something _from him, something suspiciously close to pride, which sometimes was all he had left.

He had to do it, to prove to himself that he still could.

* * *

That night, the trash can was full, and he had a ration bar for dinner. It was hard, and alien, but with every bite and every memory it became easier. He washed it down with tap water, and that, too, became familiar once more.

And, that night, when the nightmares came back, he welcomed it with a kind of relief.

* * *

Proverb of the day: _To cut off your nose to spite your own face._

Pride makes people do stupid things. Like refusing a gift that you need really badly, simply because you're too stubborn and proud to admit you need help. It's a human thing. I do it too often to pretend I don't, and yet I keep doing it, because... pride is different from arrogance. That's all I can say.

If you've done something terrible you think you can never quite forgive yourself for, sometimes the edge of that pain can be taken off by others who don't think it's as bad as all that and still love you anyway. Sometimes. And sometimes it just makes everything so much worse, because you _know_ that it _is_ that bad but no one can see it and the guilt just gets heavier, like you're being forgiven when you don't deserve it at all. This is a human thing, too.

What fools these mortals be and so on. Being a fool isn't being stupid, though.

Thanks to **Sir Gawain of Camelot** for reminding me of something I wanted to point out but kept on forgetting to. You're about right, by the way. For everyone else, in case this hasn't been clear enough, the structure of the chapters goes something like this: Monday, then a condensed week. Each Monday sees a picture and each week sees something new, like the food. The chapter titles are to this effect.

Whee.

**Ashen Skies**  
_"I get that. So I'm okay with him._"


	7. Fourth Week

**Disclaimer:** Ashen, despite her most fervent wishes, does not own and does not have any relation to Gundam Wing and its affiliates. Ashen is not making any profit from writing this, nor does she have permission to.

**Pairings:** 1x2x1, probable mentions of 3x4

**Summary:** Duo's exhausted, overworking himself to the point of death – and he welcomes it all with open arms. But then he finds mysterious drawings appearing, showing him what he'd lost, and he begins to rethink his life…

* * *

**A Thousand Words**

_Seven_

* * *

_Many would be cowards if they had courage enough_. –Thomas Fuller

* * *

It was past midnight again. Past midnight, and the world blurred. He couldn't really see the clock hands clearly, but he knew it was past midnight, because the black blurs of the clock hands were around the two-o-clock area, which told him it was past midnight. Obviously. Clearly. Though not very clearly, actually, and it was only obvious because, because... because what? Because. He just knew. Some part of him, that part that moved his hand and his pencil and typed in calculator commands, while the rest of him watched through sheep-wool clouds, had by some sort of logic arrived at the conclusion:

It was past midnight. Again.

Was it Thursday, or Friday? It wasn't the weekend yet, because his workers had just left the office – no, not _just_. They'd left a while ago, if it was past midnight now. Not that it mattered if it was Thursday or Friday, because he would come in to work on the weekend anyway. It was just that he probably should be able to keep track of the days of the week, when in the past he could tell you the history of the days of the week, how their names had been derived and how the calendar itself had been determined and how the seven-day system had been born, and now he couldn't even tell if it was Thursday or Friday.

Thursday had something to do with storms. Thunder. Thor, the thunder god – Thor's day? Friday, maybe Freya. Frei? Beauty, the goddess of beauty, or some such.

Well. It was probably Thursday then.

Even if the storm wasn't physical.

Curse, crumple, aim, throw. The ball of paper bounced out of the trash bin to join its fallen comrades on the floor, fallen because the bin was too full. Full of other bits of paper and machinery, paper because he kept getting figures he didn't like or didn't seem possible, his progress through his documents slow but sure, machinery because of the bloody, bloody, bloody voices – this one bit he could remember. Had he even _known_ so many people in the Preventers? Yet they all seemed to know _him_. Tuesday in the drawer when he'd opened it, Wednesday in the air-conditioning unit when he'd turned it up because somehow he couldn't make himself immune to the cold anymore, Thursday under the chair, Friday under the desk – oh.

It was Friday then. Fancy that.

TGIF and all that, and suddenly he had the urge to visit Carrie. The diner seemed a dream from the olden ages, the golden ages, when it had been him alone in his life, in his mind. He wanted to sink into his booth again, with cracked upholstery that was still comfortable, soft lights that didn't hurt his hurting eyes, a chef that could drag out the process of microwaving food. He wanted warm food – no! No. He needed sustenance, that was all, he didn't _miss_ the warmth or the taste or anything, He didn't miss it, didn't need it, definitely didn't miss it, he'd said that already, hadn't he.

_Methinks the lord doth protest too much_, and so he just stopped thinking stupid thoughts before he got himself into mental trouble again. Not... that he wasn't already in deep mental shit. Duo fought the urge to laugh out loud; even a chuckle might snowball and he might one day find himself cackling while his hand hovered over the red button that would end the world.

God, he'd never been this cracked, even in the beginning, that horrible time when he was relearning what loneliness felt like. That uphill climb so steep that it felt like he was slipping, stumbling, careening downhill instead and digging his heels in, scraping his hands raw to stop it, but to no effect. So uphill that it felt like falling.

Food it was, then. Stand up, stagger, grab the stupid table, wait for it, wait for it. His eyes cleared after a moment, and the shock had cleared his mind some, too, because he was actually aware of packing up, could actually remember locking up, checking the lights. His mind must have fogged again then, since he found himself staring at his car, door open. Hmm.

At least he wasn't having spasms, jerking uncontrollably, like he had the first couple of nights of drug overload. His body had done fine after that, after the drugs had worked themselves out of his system, but there was nothing like nightmares plus flailing limbs to wreck one's paperwork. He got into the car, and in moments was pulling out of the parking lot.

Car crash! Oh, not that he was in one, but he could very likely end up in one if he drove in this state, but then again it was so very late – past midnight, way past – that if he hit anyone it was as likely as if that someone had hit _him_, because only late-night party-goers would be out now and they'd be drunk, which wasn't very different from himself at the moment.

He drove.

Lights, swirling, faster and faster, and he was running and running hard, outrunning so many things that he didn't want to think about, trying to outrun _himself_ – oh god shit _no_.

It was _Saturday_!

Since it was past midnight, and all. Way to go, Maxwell.

He wondered who Saturday had been, but then again he couldn't really remember who Duo Maxwell had been onceuponatime.

Steering wheel, brake, gear stick, stop. It had been stupid, stupid, to let what had happened affect him so much that he hadn't paid attention to his body's needs. It was like smoking, you couldn't get addicted to one pack a day and then suddenly go cold turkey. In his case, he couldn't eat proper meals and then suddenly go back to ration bars, and _rationed_ ration bars at that because he kept forgetting to get new stock. His body wasn't as young as it used to be, and this time he couldn't help but snort out loud because this was really an _obvious_ obviously.

Bright lights, door, empty booth, sit. He spared a moment to feel upset that his normal booth had been taken up, but then he pushed it out of his mind because this was such a minute matter it wasn't even worth remembering, and not because the booth-usurpers in question were a couple and _do not even go there_, Maxwell. If he didn't know better he'd think he was hallucinating, there were couples _everywhere_ these days. Not that he had a problem with it. Not that he wanted to be part of one, or something.

Oh, shut up.

He didn't rest his head and take a quick nap. He'd learned his lesson. He would just lean back for a moment, re-familiarize himself with the feel of the place...

_You killed him! You killed him, god, you did it you killed him oh god, oh god. Murderer! Murderer!_

_Duo? Oh, shit – please, ma'am, I know you're hurting, but –_

_Let go of me! The war wasn't enough for you? You took my husband during that war, and now – you murderer –_

_Ma'am! I'll have to ask you to leave –_

_I want him back! I want them both back! Give them back to me, you bastard –_

_Security! Securi – ow, fuck. Trowa! Thank god, help me get a hold of her!_

– _you murdering bastard, you monster, why can't you die –_

_Ma'am, the police have confirmed it was an accident –_

_Quatre, she's past listening. I'll hold her, get Duo away from here._

_Lies! All lies! Oh god, I've no one left, no one, no one._

_Duo, come on, don't listen, follow me –_

_Give me my son back! Give him back, I need him! I need him._

_Duo, come on._

_Anyone, someone please..._

_Please._

_Duo...?_

"Duo! I haven't seen you in such a long time! Have you been getting the food? I hope it tasted fine, I've never held with take-out, food should be freshly cooked and eaten on the spot."

It took him a few long seconds to focus on that face, that warm smile, that concern. A few long seconds for the face in his memory to fade, replaced by the one before him. They were about the same age, his mind noted idly. Same age, and yet their reactions to him were so different...

_The other one has the right of it_, a little voice whispered in his mind. _She knows who you really are. This woman before you has befriended a lie._

He faked a smile, sincerity shining through – who was it who had said that if you could fake sincerity you'd got it made? – and it came so easily that it was as if she was Oz, and he an infiltrator into their ranks. "Carrie. Yes, the food was delicious. Thank you. Could I have my usual, please?"

"Of course. I've already put in the order. If you don't mind me saying so, you look awful, my dear, what _have_ you been doing? I thought that with your friend to look after you –"

"_I have no friend. You had no right to interfere with my life._"

The moment the words were out of his mouth he knew he'd gone too far. He'd gone _shinigami_ on her, and the look on her face – fear. He knew what he looked like. He knew what he looked like _to her_, as she took a couple of steps back, hands held out before her in an instinctive protective gesture. He knew, even as he wiped his expression of all traces of his battle self, that this was something he could never really take back.

It was for the best, really.

Suddenly bone-tired, so terribly tired, he gave her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. Overworked and all. Could I just have some alone time?"

"Of – of course. I'll just – bring your food when it's done."

She tried to smile, but she left all too quickly, shoulders tense, as if waiting for a blow. He couldn't blame her. It was cliché, but he could only blame himself; the past few days had stretched him beyond his limits. Some part of his mind, the one that let him plough through work without really thinking about it, was still working well enough to notice that his thoughts had gone back to rambling and disjointed like it had been before, rather than the increasingly coherent thought processes of the past weeks. No matter. He'd been this screwed up before, and he'd still managed to get his work done.

_You've never lost it enough to yell at innocents before._

No, he hadn't, had he. It was fine, though. Wasn't he used to it already? Yet another someone he'd hurt. Yet another someone he'd made leave, or who'd left him.

_You've never been this incoherent either._

The higher you climbed, the harder you fell. It didn't matter. It didn't even hurt anymore. He'd start making more sense in a couple of weeks, really, like last time, when he'd gone from pampered Special Ops pay in the Preventers to starved kid.

Speaking of which. There would be another bag of take-out from this place back in his apartment. He should stop tossing them, there were starving children in Utopia. Ethiopia. Africa? Perhaps he'd drop it off with some homeless guy. He was bound to find one or two, wasn't he?

He shouldn't have wasted those five days of dinner. Sixth time's the charm, perhaps. Saturday. Saturn, that was it, the planet. Jupiter was Zeus, or something, Mars was Mars, Venus was, was, um, Aphrodite, yes, so who was Satan... oh, a Freudian slip. Who was _Saturn_. Saturn equals Satan, that worked. Actually he suspected this was entirely wrong, but at least it sounded plausible, the two words being so similar. This was his day, then. Saturday. Saturn's day, Satan's day, the devil's day, _shinigami_'s day. His day.

_Is it really?_ That hated little voice chose this moment to gibber at him. Shut up, shut up, I don't want to hear it... _Those voices, old colleagues and strangers and enemies, even enemies. Old friends. All saying the same thing –_

No! They didn't have any idea, he'd fooled them all, and they only saw what he let them see –

_No one's that good an actor._

He was. Without meaning to, he'd _been_ that good an actor, that they'd all been fooled. That they all thought he was – hah – a good person. A _good_ person, for god's sake! Murder and good were mutually exclusive ideas.

_Is Quatre evil? Is Trowa? Wufei?_

_Heero?_

Shut up shut up shut up. That was different. _They_ were different. They didn't keep causing harm to come to others even after the war. Okay, they hurt people, but only bad people. They were Preventers, it was what they did. They helped people by hurting others, and god, his vocabulary had gone kindergarten.

_It's what you did._

Okay, where was the food? He was going insane, insane people talked to themselves, and he should stop. He looked up, towards the counter, saw his food coming, and tried to give Carrie a smile. It came out as a grimace of sorts, but she gave him a trembling smile back, and god, she was too nice and trusting and everything. No one who wasn't a saint could have given him the benefit of the doubt after he'd turned _that look_ on them.

He had to get away quickly. He'd corrupt her, somehow, by his very _presence_ people got hurt. Hadn't that been proved so many times over?

_It's always us. Never you._

_Why...?_

"Careful, Duo," she admonished as he shovelled a rather large spoonful in his mouth. "Wouldn't want you to choke. Take your time, it's Sunday, after all. The day of rest."

He blinked at her.

"Yes, Duo, it's Sunday. It's almost three in the morning."

Oh. Ohhh. Right. He remembered, now, he'd been relieved and rather suspicious when there had been no voices bugging him today, and he'd wondered if it was because he was the only one in the office on a Saturday which might mean that one of his employees, possibly more, had been helping to put the voices where they were. But he'd dismissed that idea and went back to work, definitely not thinking about the lack of voices or some such, because lock picking was second nature to – no, no, lock picking was a _common skill_. Yeah. Anyone could do it. It didn't take specially trained kids to – okay, no, he wasn't thinking about it.

Sunday. He'd made it through a week. Cool.

He managed to finish his food and got the hell out of there in a daze, barely exchanging three more sentences with her. He couldn't remember what they'd said, but it had left her looking worried for him. Saints on Earth might just exist after all. Car, door, locked. Key, where was his key... open the door, slide in, one try, two, before the key went into the ignition, his hands were trembling slightly. It was the cold; that was all.

Only the cold.

Apartment, parking lot, he'd missed the whole drive, mindless and blank, and he'd really deteriorated since the war, hadn't he. But then again it had been years, and the effects of training were fading, had faded, like muscles too long unused. Lift, buttons, which floor was it again – fuck he'd forgotten to lock the car. Back out into the parking lots, car, locked. Oh. Hmm. Okay.

Lifts again. He remembered the floor this time, and pressed the button. He'd just started to feel slightly starved for air when the _ding_ came and he got out, night air, or actually morning. Sunday morning air. He turned the handle, pushed at the door – which didn't budge. What?

He tried it again. Locked.

Then it occurred to him that the reason why he'd been expecting it to be open was because for the past few weeks it had been, and that it _wasn't_ now meant...

His chest hurt, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

Hah, even one of the other four – no! Even the toughest, most stubborn man, who it must be noted could be _any_ man in the world and not necessarily one of _them_, even such a man couldn't outlast Duo Maxwell. He was _the_ most stubborn bastard on _earth_, take that!

The words rang hollow even in his own head. Snarling a little, he shoved down the darker emotions, the choking ones, and fumbled for his house keys. He was _happy_ about this, dammit. Then he realized the phone was ringing inside, and he was suddenly moving faster, mind clearing, because he'd only ever had it ring twice this late – once it had been his employee, a girl even more anti-social than himself and who'd had no one else to turn to and had almost done something stupid because of that, and the second time had been his neighbour, a young kid he'd been supposed to watch out for while his parents were out of town, and who'd locked himself in his bedroom because there'd been a thief outside.

Kicking the door shut behind him, he darted to the phone and yanked it out of its cradle. "I'm here," he said quickly. "Is that Mira?" Timmy's parents were home, so it wouldn't be him.

Silence. And then, a quiet, "No."

His heart stopped. Then he slammed the phone down, knowing that he was wild-eyed, on the verge of panicking, but he didn't know how to stop it. He hit blindly at the answering machine, because if Quatre could call once he'd _definitely_ call again, and watched with a detached relief as the machine went on.

Then he backed away until his knees gave out and he just sat on the floor, staring at the phone. How had they gotten his number? He'd have to move, now. If they could find his number they could find his address. He should take the phone off the hook, but somehow some small part of him, a small but insistent part, wouldn't let him. A small part that still craved to hear their voices, the part of him that had made him pick up the phone a few weeks back and dial that familiar number.

Was he never going to be able to forget them?

The phone rang, once, twice, five times. Then the machine, his own voice: _Hi, Adams here. Wait for the beep, because I'm not home._

The machine beeped. Duo held his breath.

"What do I think of Duo Maxwell? I think of him as a brother, closer than blood; a friend, a best friend. Someone I can trust with anything I might want to trust with anyone. He puts everyone else above him, and values himself so little, so much below how we all value him. He takes so much on himself that it crushes him, but he still smiles and laughs and takes on more." Quatre's voice dropped lower, shakier. "I'm not sure if I could do that."

"He doesn't share the burden, either, even when we all try to take part of it off him. He's an idiot that way. Isn't it better to let others help and do more, than screw things up yourself? But no, he has to be the tough one. When can he see that he's already so strong that we all respect him in a way we respect few people? He's proved to us his worth time and again, but he can't see it." That was Trowa's style, less formal than Quatre, gently reprimanding, conversational.

"He is an honourable man. So much so that he takes the slightest blow hard, unless the blow is physical, which is when he takes it all without a single sound. He feels for the world with a depth of feeling that makes him try to take responsibility when it is not his to take. It is admirable, but sometimes exasperating when he takes it too far." Wufei, more direct than Trowa, honest and blunt, though unusually forthcoming with his emotions this time."

"People get hurt around us because of what we do, Duo." Trowa again, this time straight to the heart of the matter. Duo shivered, wanting to shut the machine off, not wanting to hear what was coming, but he couldn't move, only clutch at his braid tighter. "We're Preventers, it's unavoidable. Add the fact that we're better than anyone else, and of course other people get hurt more than we do."

"This last incident was a complete accident, it had nothing to do with you." Quatre, suddenly fierce. "You couldn't have known he was there. You _wouldn't_ save yourself by sacrificing another, Duo, it's not you. Not even the hidden you, the unconscious you, whatever. Even if you worry, _we _know. Outsiders see more clearly, you know that. Remember the little girl, what was her name –"

"Yvonne."

"Right, that was it. Duo, you still have the scar on your leg. Took you months to recover, we were worried if you were going to be crippled forever. Remember? You moved without thinking, then. You _did_."

"Then there was that thing with the pomfret, which has since been immortalized as the Most Ridiculous Though Amazing Rescue Attempt Ever, you might like to know. We thought you were never going to wake up, but you did, and you saved that family without even thinking about it. It was automatic, wasn't it? You're a good person, Duo, _believe_ it."

Quatre subsided, then, and Duo could just imagine the scene, Trowa putting a gentling hand on his shoulder, watching out for him, reminding him, like good partners do. Reminding him that his passion overwhelms, sometimes.

He himself used to be like that. Where had all that emotion gone?

No, not gone. Locked away, but still there, and that was the most terrifying thought of all, that one day it would come back with a vengeance, and it would undo him, especially if he was as raw as he was feeling now.

"Would we stay friends – no, brothers – would we stay brothers with a coward? You should know that I have no patience with men like that, so believe me, Duo –" Wufei hardly called them by their names, and when he did it was serious, important, "– you are someone I am honoured to know."

"Except those times when you fall back on running and hiding." Trowa in his wry, quietly amused way. "Like now, Duo. You _know_ that's what you're doing, and you know it's stupid."

"We still love you, but honestly you deserve a good smack," Quatre interjected.

"Don't let dying or grief-stricken words get to you. We can sympathize with them, but we shouldn't let them drag us down. _You_ shouldn't let them drag you down."

There was a pause, then, when no one seemed to know what to say. Duo found himself moving before he knew it, and the phone was in his hands. He stared at it, and then put it to his ear and said, quietly, "I don't want to be a Preventer anymore."

"Then quit." The reply was immediate and firm. "It was a sucky job, anyway, all that paperwork. You have lots of choices, we'll help you find something." There was suppressed joy and a hell lot of relief in Quatre's voice, but he kept the conversation light, as if they were meeting up for a quick lunch instead of talking to each other for the first time in half a year after one of them had disappeared without a word. "Just – don't abandon us like this. I don't care what you work as; you're my brother in all but blood."

"You could join Barton part-time at the circus," Wufei suggested lightly.

Duo heard Trowa snort. "Imagine Duo in tights and ruffles. Though it just might work, he's very... flexible. More than Quatre, even."

The sound of two people choking, and Quatre's embarrassed little yelp. Duo started snickering, and then laughing, and then somewhere amidst all that he started crying until he wasn't sure what he was doing, anymore. Some part of him was aware he'd dropped the phone, and there were worried voices calling him as if from a great distance, tinny and unreal, and he couldn't get enough air, and all the thoughts and fears and emotions were swirling around his head, suffocating him. Some distant part realized he was hyperventilating.

Then the voices stopped, and warm hands held him, cradled him. A soothing voice, hypnotic and familiar and everything good, telling him to take deep breaths, to focus, and he did, because to disobey that voice was unthinkable. He trusted that voice, trusted it like he trusted nothing else, especially himself. It was telling him to let go, to relax, and he did that too.

Duo cried himself out, soul-wracking sobs and whimpers; unaware of anything around him but warmth and safety. When exhaustion claimed him, he simply burrowed deeper into the dark, and let himself slip into sleep.

* * *

Well. Nothing much more left to say; nothing much more left at all, actually. One more chapter to go. 

I worry about whether I convey the changes in his mental stability well enough. Like how it's all cracked in the first chap, and then gets better, and then here he's just this absolute mess. I worry about whether I actually made sense in this chapter, because I was trying for 'almost insane'.

Maaaajor exams coming up, darlings, so it'll be a while. Sorry.

**Ashen Skies  
**_"So uphill that it felt like falling."_


	8. Monday the First

**Disclaimer:** Ashen, despite her most fervent wishes, does not own and does not have any relation to Gundam Wing and its affiliates. Ashen is not making any profit from writing this, nor does she have permission to.

**Pairings:** 1x2x1, probable mentions of 3x4

**Summary:** Duo's exhausted, overworking himself to the point of death – and he welcomes it all with open arms. But then he finds mysterious drawings appearing, showing him what he'd lost, and he begins to rethink his life…

* * *

**A Thousand Words **

_Eight_

_

* * *

_

_I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be._ --Douglas Adams

_There are some defeats more triumphant than victories._ --Michel de Montaigne

* * *

Duo slept.

He stirred once, swimming towards the not-light, the less-dark, but gentle hands and murmured words soothed him, and he slept again.

A long time passed.

He dreamt, indistinct and vague images, hazy and softly colourful. Whenever they began to sharpen, come into red-tinged focus, they were chased back by those hands, those words, smoothed down, gentled away.

Made safe.

He was safe in a way he hadn't felt for a very long time. It felt... right.

Nothing had felt this right for a very long time, either.

It was that thought that brought him to consciousness again, and this time there was nothing to hold him back. He didn't know whether to be regretful or relieved – it felt like he'd slept for ages, but he'd been without sleep for so long that it still felt like it wasn't enough. He debated sleeping again, but his senses registered the soft sunlight that hinted at mid-morning, and that pushed him past the roll-over-and-go-back-to-sleep stage.

He washed up, brushed through his hair and re-braided it, and then stumbled blearily into the kitchen and dropped into a chair. He groped for the glass he could make out before him through half-open eyes and gulped down half of its contents before he blinked. "I thought I was out of orange juice?"

"You were. I bought some oranges instead of another carton. Freshly squeezed is always better." Heero put a plate down before him – chocolate chip pancakes – followed by the butter dish and a butter knife, and a jar of maple honey. "It's the brand of honey you like, though I still swear they all taste the same."

"Ah, but natural is always better," Duo said with a quirk of his lips, reaching for the butter. "How long?"

"The whole of yesterday, and this morning. The rest did you good. You look better – hey, I told you before, don't put so much butter, it's unhealthy."

"Don't be a grump, the healthy honey makes up for it."

"Healthy honey is an oxymoron. That stuff will give you diabetes. Besides, you slather on so much of that too, that whether it's natural or not makes no difference."

Duo sighed, and reached over to smear the remaining knifeful of butter on Heero's pancakes. "Fine, happy now?"

He could hear the smile, even if he steadfastly refused to look up and meet those impossibly blue eyes. "Yes, actually."

He didn't say anything to that, just concentrated on eating. God, but the pancakes were heavenly. Something occurred to him, and he asked suddenly, "Did you make coffee?"

"No. You can have some later. Like two years later."

"But I like coffee," Duo said, hearing a petulant thread creep into his voice.

"We both know you've been taking too many caffeine pills. It's not healthy, particularly since you haven't been taking care of yourself."

He grumbled a little under his breath, but subsided. Then he thought back to the brief glimpse he'd had of his worktable just now. "Hey – I didn't see –"

"I threw the bottle away," Heero said calmly.

"What!" Duo's head shot up to glare at Heero, but the Japanese man was looking right at him with an odd half-smile on his face as he ate a neat forkful of pancake. He quickly looked back down, and muttered, "I need those."

"No." There was a note of finality in Heero's voice. "You won't need them again."

Well. When he got like that, there was no point in arguing. Duo didn't try.

They ate in silence for a little while longer, and then Heero ventured, "I'm almost done with the Barker case. In a couple of days, maybe, you'll be able to press charges if you want, or at the very least get back what he took."

He couldn't help the feral grin that flashed across his face. "I can't wait to confront him with real evidence." He hesitated. Then he figured _what the hell_, and said in a rush, "If you like, since you did most of the work, you can come too. And you're pretty scary all by yourself, when you want to be."

"Plus the fact that two are scarier than one," Heero agreed. "I would love to come along."

He felt good enough to raise his head and give the other man a fleeting smile, before ducking his chin again. "He won't know what hit him."

They finished their meal without speaking again, but it was a comfortable silence this time. Duo remembered other times like this, times he'd forced himself to forget, back when they'd lived together and worked together as Preventer partners. Of all the people he'd known, he'd missed Heero the most – missed him with an ache that cut so deep he'd pushed all thoughts of them together to the very back of his mind, even further than he'd pushed the other three ex-pilots.

He'd loved Heero for so long that he didn't even think about it anymore, and was content to just take whatever the other man wanted to give, but being together like this after so long brought that _yearning_ to the forefront again. All the immunity he'd gained to each and every aspect of, of _Heero-ness_, had been lost with lack of constant exposure, and now it was like the time he'd first discovered that he was in love, all over again. Duo snorted – what was Heero, a disease? He couldn't be the chicken pox, then, it only came once.

"Share the joke?"

"No, no, it's just... nothing." Duo smiled despite himself. "Actually... I was wondering, if you were a disease, what disease would you be?"

Heero eyed him as he collected the plates. "On second thoughts, let's pretend I didn't ask."

He rose to help put away the butter dish and the honey while Heero deposited the plates in the sink and began washing. Done with the butter and honey, Duo got a cloth and began wiping the table, then went to dry the dishes while Heero washed. It was such a familiar routine that he felt the lump rise in his throat.

And like always, his thoughts seemed to resonate with his partner's, for Heero said softly by his side, "I missed this. I missed _you_, Duo. When you just vanished, I didn't know what to think. I thought we were partners, but then..."

Duo's movements stilled, and he stared blindly at the plate in his hands. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

He realized that Heero was done with washing, and had dried his hands, only when the plate was taken from him and set aside. Heero gently turned him around, and when Duo raised his eyes slowly, he seemed to find what he was looking for, because he smiled a small smile. "Come on," he coaxed, tugging Duo gently.

Duo let himself be led into the living room, and his knees folded automatically when hands pushed him down onto his armchair. He stared when Heero knelt at his feet, looked up into Duo's face, and said solemnly, "What Heero Yuy Thinks Of Duo Maxwell."

"Wha –"

"Shh. Duo Maxwell is... an intriguing man. Frustrating at times, because he can be so pigheaded, but that's just him, and I wouldn't change it for anything. Impossible at times, but he's so charming when he is that it's just something I'm more than willing to indulge him in. Amazing _all_ the time, because he cares so much that he's hurt deeper than anyone else would be, in his place. And only recently I admitted to myself that because he's, well, _Duo_, I can't help but care for him in the same way, that I want to keep him from hurting, that I want to give him back some of what he gave away."

Heero looked away at that point. Duo just continued to stare, eyes huge in a pale face, as the Japanese man said in a faraway voice, "Unfortunately, I haven't done a very good job of that, because like him, I was struggling – but while he was struggling with the world, I was struggling with myself, and my feelings. And because of that I wasn't a very good partner, and didn't see it coming when he ran away. I cannot forgive myself for that – looking back, the signs were all there. If I couldn't have stopped him, at least I could have gone with him for as long as he needed me to. I _would_ have gone with him."

Heero took a deep breath then, and let it out slowly. Duo could only sit frozen, fighting back the panicked urge to laugh hysterically at the utterly _unreal_ situation, as Heero took his unresisting hands in his own and looked down at them, absently rubbing little circles on the soft skin with his thumbs. "But his running away did one thing, the only good thing to come out of this mess, I think. It made me realize that in a way, I'd already come to accept him. I'd grown used to his presence in my life, so much so that it wasn't really my life anymore without him in it."

The blood drained from Duo's face, and he saw Heero notice and quickly rush on. His eyes came up to lock onto Duo's, and even the little voice screaming _run away now_ in his head couldn't tear his gaze away from that earnest one. "In the time that you were gone, I thought a lot about our partnership. And I realized that I needed my partner back, because things were simply _wrong_ without him. But when I found you, you were... in a very dark place. I know you well enough to know that if I had confronted you you'd have run. That you'd never have accepted help willingly. So I did what I had to do, and now... here I am. Here we are."

"What you had to – but why – what, the, the drawings and food and the paperwork..." Duo began confusedly.

"You weren't taking care of yourself," Heero said simply. "I decided it was high time I started taking care of you, since you did it for me all these years. And it was also to remind you of what, of _who_ you'd left behind –"

"The _drugs_?" Duo blurted.

Heero had the grace to look embarrassed. "I misjudged your reaction to them. I thought I'd gotten your guard relaxed enough to try to get you to relax physically... it served to show me how hard you were _really_ running, though."

"Hence the tapes?"

He nodded.

"Oh."

"I didn't tell them what to say, you know. You think so much more badly of yourself than anyone does. I had to, as you would put it, shove that fact in your face. Much more your style than mine, actually."

"Who are you and what have you done to Heero the Insensitive Bastard Yuy?"

Heero grinned briefly. "I killed him and buried the body because he was being stupid."

"Really?"

"Metaphorically."

"Oh."

When it became clear that Duo was thinking too hard to say anything else, Heero stood and picked up a tube of paper from the low table and put it into his hands. He backed away a little as Duo stared at it, and then slowly unrolled it.

It was their balcony, back at the apartment they'd shared, a place in which they had often sat and stared out at the night, talking about everything and nothing. But this time, instead of sitting in separate lounge chairs, they were standing at the rail, together. Paper-Heero held Paper-Duo securely, the shorter man nestled comfortably against him in the crook of his arm, soft shades and hair-fine curls of charcoal making them glow against the sunrise that spread sweeping across the paper sky. Their faces were up-tilted to face the sun, and the just barely visible soft curve to their lips and their smile-gentled eyes made their quiet joy clear.

Joy, and – something else.

"Why did you come after me?" Duo said finally, voice hoarse. He realized that he was on the verge of real tears, and blinked rapidly, carefully rolling the paper back and putting it safely on the table by his chair.

"Like I said, I needed my partner back," Heero answered carefully.

"We're not going to work together anymore. I'm going to quit the Preventers."

"I know."

"Heero..." He felt guarded and hopeful all at once. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying..." There was a hesitant pause, as if he was searching for the right words, and then Heero said solemnly, "Come home with me, and teach me how to show you that the depth of what I feel for you is in no way less than the depth of what you feel for me."

Happiness surged in his chest, and he tried to make light of it, seeing how uncomfortable Heero was. "Avoiding the L-word, are we?"

Heero looked slightly shamefaced. "I'm not... I'm trying, but it's hard – it was okay when I was doing it from a distance, the last few weeks, but..."

He decided to give his partner a break. "I know. I'm pretty amazed already, I must say." He touched the drawing lightly with his fingertips. "I never knew you drew so well."

"I discovered it by accident... when you left, I thought about so many things that it was all tangled together, and one of the outlets Louis suggested was drawing."

"Louis?"

"I... well." Now Heero really looked embarrassed. "Without your influence to hold me in check, and with the stress of not knowing what had happened to you, I... lost control. Twice. No permanent harm, before you ask."

Duo blinked. And then burst into laughter. "A_ therapist_? Louis is your therapist!"

"I prefer the term _counsellor_," Heero said with haughty indignation, and smiled to himself when it made Duo laugh all the harder, doubling up and clutching at his stomach. It had been too long since he'd seen Duo so happy.

When Duo caught his breath, relaxing back in his chair, loose-limbed and smiling, Heero felt a sudden urge, and deciding that he'd repressed his feelings for too long a time, he stepped forward and leaned down. One hand slid behind to gently cup the back of Duo's neck, holding his head in place, and, using the other hand to brace himself on the armrest, Heero tilted his head to one side and kissed him.

Duo's eyes flew open, and then gradually fluttered shut. It was the sweetest thing he'd ever felt, gentle pressure and unbelievably soft lips pressing against his own, slow, lingering, tender. Heero pressed kisses to the corners of his mouth, the edges of his jaw, his cheekbones, his eyelids, butterfly-soft and delicate. One kiss to the middle of his forehead, and then back to his lips, unhurried, little touches of tongue and playful nips of teeth.

He made a little helpless sound, low in his throat, and was rewarded with a swipe of tongue. He understood what Heero was trying to say, trying to show him, now and for the past few weeks, in his kisses and drawings and specially-ordered organic honey and all. He didn't need words. Words were overrated. He didn't need anything else, only these slow, languid touches, like they could go on like this forever.

Finally Heero pulled away, though only going so far as resting his forehead against Duo's. They breathed deeply, quietly, and Duo with his eyes closed wondered if Heero looked as overwhelmed as he himself felt. He didn't have the strength to open his eyes to check, though.

It wasn't enough, not by far, and yet it was too much.

"Come home with me," Heero murmured. "That friend of yours, Kimberly, he wants to expand his company, he wouldn't mind buying yours over. You can work it out with him. I'll help. Then you can come back and we can... we can work _us_ out."

"What if I don't want to leave?"

The answer was immediate. "Then I'll stay. I won't leave you." Then Heero paused, and added hesitantly, "It's just that the others miss you, too. Trowa has his hands full with Quatre, and Sally tells me Wufei is fast becoming unbearable, and, well, I took leave for only two months when I decided to come after you, and the paperwork for additional leave is unbelievable. I'll have to –"

Duo laughed softly, barely an exhalation of breath. "I was just teasing." He opened his eyes to meet Heero's intense gaze and had to ask. "You're really serious about this? I mean... no regrets? I can be a very demanding... partner."

"You _are_ a very demanding partner." Seeing Duo frown, Heero added with mock resignation, "But I'm used to it."

Laughing, for real this time, Duo gently pushed Heero back. "Well then, let me start being demanding. The faster we tie up things here, the faster we can go back and Quat can smother me to death while Wu-man lectures my ears off. Show me the stuff you have on Barker."

"No," Heero said immediately. "You might be rested, but you've still gone six months pushing yourself over your limits. You need more rest." He quirked a smile at Duo. "Finish that book you bought."

Duo rolled his eyes. "You know, I really should be more upset with you spying on me. And breaking into my house. And leaving me potentially-poisoned food. And starting an office-wide revolt, you ass! I'm not even going to mention the drugs. You messed me up good, these few weeks."

"That was rather the point."

"Fine. Fine, I'll rest."

Heero looked wary. "You will?"

"On one condition."

The look on his face said plainly, _I knew it_. Nevertheless, Heero gestured for him to continue.

"You draw me a picture of yourself. To make up a complete set."

His partner sighed heavily. "Duo, self-portraits are the most difficult of all. I'm not sure –"

"Please?" Duo gave him hopeful puppy eyes.

"How about a nice photo –"

"We're going to take _heaps _of photos, Heero my man, but I want a drawing."

"Duo –"

"Or I'm going out there to buy another bottle of caffeine pills."

Dark blue eyes narrowed. "You can try."

Duo smiled sweetly at him. "You know, after so long, I'm not at all certain I can keep myself from getting hurt in attempting to, say, swing from window to window, perhaps."

Glare met smile, and crumbled under the onslaught. Heero sighed. "I'll _try_. I'm not kidding about the difficulty, Duo. But... I'll try."

"You have our whole lives to practice," Duo assured him. Seeing Heero trying to cover up a moment of wide-eyed joy, he grinned and slid off the chair, going over to wrap his arms around the other man, nuzzling the crook of his neck. "Thank you for coming after me, partner-mine," he whispered.

Heero's armed wrapped around him in return. "I'm only sorry it took so long," he sighed, and Duo knew that he didn't mean the six months, but the long years.

"Don't worry about it," he sighed. "It's not like I wasn't partly at fault."

"Promise me you won't do something like this again. When you start feeling guilty about people getting hurt around you –"

"I'll come running to mummy, I get it."

"_Duo..._"

He laughed softly. "I'll come running to you. Promise."

"Thank you."

"Mm."

"Duo. I – someday I'll be able to say it, but – you do know, don't you?"

He smiled into Heero's skin, and thought about how his and Quatre's and Wufei's and Trowa's drawings were all perfectly everything that they were and everything that they hid, and everything that they tried not to show but nevertheless was in plain sight, all at the same time. He thought about that last drawing, just an arm's reach behind him, and he thought about how Bonaparte was right, how it did speak a thousand words.

A thousand words, and all of them were beautiful.

"Yes," he breathed. "I know."

* * *

The best quote I can find from this chapter that just about sums the entire story up is just two paragraphs above, so I won't bother putting it down below to end the chapter.

A-Levels are OVER. Oh, my laptop, how I've missed you. Anyway, that was why I took such a long break. Sorry!

I think some might find the ending a little too quick, but I was hoping to show how they just... click into place. Oh well. Perhaps someday if my writing skills improve enough I might redo this last chap.

Hope you all liked.

Oh, and I just remembered why I numbered the Mondays the way they are. It's because this Monday, this last chapter, is the first. (: Which is symbolically significant, yay.

**Ashen Skies**


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